Wooden doors, weathered and cracked with age, stood ajar at the tower’s dark entry, sagging on hinges broken and rusted with disuse. Wrapped in the music of her song, the Valegirl passed through. The gloom lay thick within, yet there was light enough by which she might see, a dim and misted glimmer that slipped in thin streamers through cracks and splits in the tower’s crumbling walls. Dust carpeted the stone flooring, forming a blanket of fine silt that rose in clouds as the girl’s boots pressed down upon it. It was cool here, the heat and the stench of the jungle somehow locked without.
Brin slowed. A hallway wound ahead into shadow. She turned briefly, a warning tug from deep within her bringing her about to stare guardedly back into the mass of the jungle that walled this tower away.
She went on. The power of the magic stirred through her in a flush of sudden heat, and she seemed to float. She passed down the hallway, following its bends and twists, barely aware of the dust as it rose vaporlike from beneath her feet. Once she thought to wonder how it was that no other footprints save hers marked the corridor she followed when surely the Mord Wraiths, too, had passed this way, but the matter faded quickly from her mind.
Stairs rose before her and she began to climb-a slow, endless climb into the center of the tower. Whispers seemed to call out to her, voices that had no source and no identity, but were born of the very air she breathed. All about her, the whispers called. Shadows and half-light mixed and blended. It seemed as if she were soaking into the stone of the tower itself, slipping ghostlike through its chambers, spreading out to become one with it, as she had become one with the Maelmord. She felt it happen, bit by bit, a welcome drawing in of her body. The magic of the song made it happen, still reaching out to the evil that lay hidden there, insinuating her within as if she were truly one with it...
Then the stairway ended and she stood on the threshold of a cavernous, domed rotunda that lay gray, shadowed, and empty. Almost of its own volition, the music of the wishsong faded to a whisper, and the voices in the air about her went still.
She entered the room, barely conscious of the movement of her body, still seeming to float as she passed. Shadows crept back from her, and her eyes adjusted to the light. The chamber was not empty, as she had first thought. There, almost lost in the gloom, was a dais; on the dais was an altar. She came forward a step. Something rested on the altar, huge, squarish, and shrouded in a darkness that seemed to emanate from within. She came forward another step. A fierce excitement flooded through her.
It was the Ildatch!
She knew it instantly, before she was certain what it was that she was seeing. This was the Ildatch, the heart of evil. The power of the wishsong filled her and drove through her, body with white-hot intensity.
She crossed the room through the raging of her thoughts, twisting down into herself like a coiled snake. The music of the wishsong became a venomous hiss. The room seemed to draw away from her, the walls receding back into shadow until there was nothing in all the world but the book. She climbed the steps of the dais and strode to where it lay closed upon the altar. It was old and worn, its bindings of copper tarnished to a greenish black and its leather covers cracked and soiled-a huge and monstrous tome that looked as if it might have seen the passing of all the ages of mankind that had ever been.
She hovered over it a moment, staring down expectantly, savoring the deep satisfaction she felt at having the book finally within her grasp.
Then she reached down and her hands closed about it.
Dark child-
The voice whispered softly within her mind, and her fingers froze upon the tarnished bindings.
Dark child-
The wishsong died into a whisper and was gone. Her throat constricted and sealed the music away, almost before she knew what it was that she had done. She stood in silence before the altar, hands still clasped tightly upon the book. Echoes of the voice lingered fitfully within her mind, tendrils that reached out and bound her so that she could not move.
I have been waiting for you, dark child. I have been waiting since first you came into being, a baby from your mother’s womb, Elven magic’s child. Always we have been joined, you and I, by bonds stronger than blood ties, stronger than flesh. Many times we have touched spirit to spirit, and, though I never knew you nor knew your way, I knew always that one day you would come-
The voice was flat and toneless, belonging neither to man nor woman, but to something that was both, stripped of all emotion and all feeling, so that there was an emptiness to its whisper that was devoid of life. Brin listened to that voice and went cold to the bone. Deep within, the self that she still sheltered and kept hidden drew back in terror.
Dark child-
She scanned the shadows of the chamber about her rapidly. Where was the speaker who called to her? What thing was it that held her so? Her eyes shifted in horror to the ancient tome she held. Her fingers were white with the grip they kept, and a burning spread from the leathered bindings.
I am, dark child. Even as you. I have life. It has always been so. There have always been those who would give me life. There have always been those who would give me theirs-
Brin’s mouth opened, but no sound came forth. The burning sensation spread from her hands into her arms and began to climb.
Know me. I am the Ildatch, the book of the dark magic, born of the age of faerie. I am older than the Elves-as old as the King of the Silver River, as ancient as the Word. Those who created me, those who gave me form, have long since passed from the land with the coming of the worlds of faerie and Man. Once I was but a part of the Word, hidden from sight and spoken only in darkness. I was but a gathering of secrets. Then the gathering took form, written and studied by those who would know my power. There have always been those who would know my power. Through all the ages, I have been there for them and have given my secrets to those who wished them shared. I have made creatures of magic and given power. But never has there been one such as you-
The words echoed in whispers filled with anticipation and promise, and the Valegirl felt them spin like blown leaves through her mind. The burning was all through her now, a tingling like the rush of heat from a furnace as its door is thrown open.
There have been many before you. Of the Druids were born the Warlock Lord and the Bearers of the Skull. They found in me the secrets that they sought and became what they would. But I was the power. Of men outcast of the races were born the Mord Wraiths, seeds already sown. But again, I was the power. I am always the power. Each time, there is supreme vision of what must be with the world and with her creatures. Each time, that vision is given shape by the minds of those who would use the power locked within my pages. Each time, the vision proves inadequate and the shaper fails. Dark child, see now a glimpse of what it is that I can offer-
As if of their own volition, Brin’s hands carefully opened the book of the Ildatch, and its parchment leaves began to turn. Words whispered from a text in an alien script and language older than man, lifting from script to voice, soft and secretive. The Valegirl’s mind opened to them, and comprehension of the text came instantly to her. A touch here, a touch there, the secrets of power were revealed to her, dark and terrible.
Then, as quickly as the revelations had come, they were gone again, lingering on in teasing memories. The pages of the book slipped back again, and the bindings closed. Her hands, still fastened on the massive tome, began to shake.
Only a whisper of what I am have I shown you. Power, dark child. Power that would dwarf that mastered by the Druid Brona and those who followed him. Power that would render meaningless that of the Mord Wraiths who come to me now. Feel that power rush through you. Feel its touch-
The burning flooded through her. She felt herself expand and grow with its rush.
For a thousand years, I have been used in ways that would dictate the fate of you and yours. For a thousand years, the enemies of your family have called upon my power and sought to destroy what you would keep. All that has brought you to this place and time has been because of me. I am the maker of what you are; I am the shaper of your life. There is reason in all that happens, dark child, and there is reason in this. Do you sense what that reason is? Look within-
A whisper of warning called suddenly to her, and she seemed to remember a tall, black-robed figure with graying heir and piercing eyes speaking to her of that which would deceive and corrupt. She struggled momentarily with the memory, but no name would come and the vision was obscured by the burning that filled her and the lingering echo of the words of the Ildatch.
Do you not see yourself? Do you not see what you are? Look within-
The voice was cold, flat, and emotionless still, yet there was an insistence to it that wrenched her thoughts away. Her vision blurred, and she seemed to see from without the thing that she had become through the magic of the wishsong.
We are as one, dark child, just as you have wished. There was never any need for the Elven magic, for you are what you are and always have been. That is why we are joined. There are ties born of the magics that make us what we are, for we are no more than the magics that we harbor-you within your body of flesh and blood, I within mine of parchment and ink. We are lives joined, and what has gone before has brought us to now. It is for this that I have waited all these years-
Lies! The word flashed through Brin’s mind and was lost. Her thoughts spun in confusion, and her reason scattered. Her hands still gripped the Ildatch as if it held her life within, and she found the words spoken by its disembodied voice oddly persuasive. There were indeed ties that bound them; there was a joining. She was like the Ildatch, a part of it, kindred to it.
She called out the name of the Druid in her mind, struggling to find the memory she had now lost. The burning rose in a fierce rush to carry it away, and again the voice spoke:
All these years I have waited for you, dark child. From-time out of time, you have come to me, and now I belong to you. See what must be done with me. Whisper it back to me-
The words came together in her mind, dark against the red haze of her vision. She sought to scream, but the sound constricted in her throat.
Whisper what must be done with me-
No! No!
Whisper what must be done with me-
Tears rose to her eyes and trickled slowly down her cheeks, I must use you, she answered.
Rone stalked from the Croagh in fury, wheeled, and came back again. Both hands gripped the ebony blade of his sword until the knuckles were white.
“Enough is enough-get that cat out of my way, Kimber!” he ordered, coming up next to her and slowing as Whisper’s massive head swung about to face him.
But again. the girl shook her head. “I cannot do that, Rone. He uses his own judgment in this.”
“I don’t care a whit about his judgment!” Rone exploded. “He’s only an animal and he can’t make a decision like this! I’m going past him whether he likes it or not! I’m not leaving Brin down in that pit alone!”
Sword lifting, he started for Whisper, but in that instant a deep shudder rippled through the mountain, rising up from the dark jungle of the Maelmord. So strong was the tremor that it staggered the highlander and the girl, causing them to stumble back in surprise. Shaken, they regained their balance and hurried to the edge of the cliffs.
“What’s happened down there?” Rone whispered worriedly. “What’s happened, Kimber?”
“Walkers, I’d guess.” Cogline spit from behind him. “Called up the dark magic to use against the girl, maybe.”
“Grandfather!” Kimber was angry this time.
Rone wheeled in rage. “Old man, if anything has happened to Brin because I’ve been held up here by that cat...”
Then he went suddenly still. A line of shadows appeared on the stairway of the Croagh, stooped and shrouded in the fading half-light of the late afternoon. They came one after another, descending from Graymarks’ leaden walls, winding their way downward toward the ledge where Rone and his companions waited.
“Mord Wraiths!” the highlander breathed softly.
Already Whisper was turning, wheeling into a crouch as he prepared to defend against them. Cogline’s sudden intake of breath hissed sharply through the silence.
Rone stared upward wordlessly as the line of dark forms lengthened and advanced. There were too many.
“Get behind me, Kimber,” he told her gently.
Then he brought up the sword.
I must use you...use you...use you.
The words repeated over and over in Brin’s mind, rising in a litany of conviction that threatened to inundate all reason. Yet some tiny semblance of logic remained, screaming at her through the words of the chant.
It is the dark magic, Valegirl! It is the evil that you have come into this place to destroy!
But the touch of the book against the skin of her hands and the burning it brought to her body held her bound so that nothing else could hold sway. Again the voice came to her, wrapping close about.
What am I but a gathering of wisdom’s lessons culled through the ages and bound for the usage of mortal beings? I am neither good nor evil, but simply a thing that is. Learning, recorded and bound-there for any who might seek to know. I take what is given me of the lives of those who work my spells and I am but a reflection of them. Think, dark child. Who have been the ones who would use me? What purposes have they sought to serve? You are not as they-
Brin braced herself against the altar, the book clasped in her hands. Don’t listen? Don’t listen!
For a thousand years and longer, your enemies have held me. Now you stand in their place, given the chance to use me as no other has tried. You hold the power that is mine. You hold the secrets that so many have wrongly used. Think what you might do with that power, dark child. All of life and death can be reshaped by what I am. Wishsong joined to written word, magic to magic-how wondrous it would be. You can feel how wondrous it would be if you would but try-
But there was no need to try. She had felt it before in the magic of the wishsong. Power! She had been swept away by it, and she had reveled in its sweetness. When it wrapped about her, she rose far above all the world and all of the creatures in it and she could gather them in or sweep them away as she might choose. How much more, then, could she do-could she feel-if she had also the power of this book?
All that is would be yours. All. Be what you would and make the world as you know it should be. You could so do much, and it would be as it should with you-not as with those who came before. You have the strength which they lacked. You are born of the Elven magic. Use me, dark child. Find the limits of your own magic and of mine. Join with me. It is for this that I have waited and that, you have come. It is what has always been intended for us. Always-
Brin’s head shook slowly from side to side. I came to destroy this, came to make an end...Within, everything seemed to be breaking apart, shattering like glass fallen to stone. Rushes of blinding heat burned through her, and she felt as if she were a thing apart from the body that sought to hold her.
I have knowledge to offer that I would give. I have insight that surpasses anything ever dreamed by mortal creatures. It can make you anything you wish. All of life can be made over as it should be, as you see that it should. Destroy me, and all I have is needlessly lost. Destroy me, and nothing of what might come to pass can ever do so. Keep what is good, dark child, and make it your own-
Allanon, Allanon...
But the voice cut short her soundless cry.
See, dark child. What you truly would destroy stands behind you. Turn now and look. Turn and see-
She whirled. A gathering of robed walkers slipped from the shadows like ghosts, tall, black, and forbidding. They filed into the rotunda, hesitating as they caught sight of Brin holding in her hands the book of dark magic. The voice of the Ildatch whispered again.
The wishsong, dark child. Use the magic. Destroy them. Destroy them-
She acted almost without thinking. Clasping the Ildatch to her protectively, she called forth the power of her magic. It came swiftly, loosed within her like the waters of a flood. She cried out, and the wishsong shattered the tower’s dark silence. It went through the gloom of the rotunda, almost a tangible thing. It caught the walkers in a burst of sound, and they simply ceased to exist. Not even ash remained of what they had been.
Brin staggered back against the altar, and within her body the magic of the wishsong mixed with the magic of the book.
Feel it, dark child. Feel the power that is yours. It fills you, and I am part of it. How easily your enemies must fall before you when that power is called forth. Can you question longer what must be? Think no more that anything different could ever be. Think no more that we are not as one. Take me and use me. Destroy the Wraiths and the black things that would stand against you. Make me yours. Give me life-
Still that part of her locked deep within fought to resist the voice, but her body was no longer her own. It belonged now to the magic, and she was trapped within its shell. She rose through herself, a new being, and that tiny bit of self that still saw the truth was left behind. She expanded until it seemed as if she filled the tiny chamber. There was so little room for her here! She must have the space that waited without!
A long, anguished groan broke from her lips, and she stretched forth her arms, the book of the Ildatch held high.
Use me. Use me-
Within her, the power began to build.
The steps of the Croagh sped away beneath Jair’s feet as he hastened after Garet Jax and Slanter, and it seemed to him as he climbed that each step must surely be his last. The muscles knotted and cramped within his body, and pain from his wound lanced through him, wearing away at his already failing strength. He was gasping for breath, his lungs aching, and his sun-browned face streaked with sweat.
But somehow he kept pace. There was never any question of doing anything else.
His eyes swept upward along the Croagh as he ran, concentrating on the weave of stairs and railing, following the path of the roughened stone. He was conscious of the cliffs and fortress walls below him, distant now and fading further, and of Graymark and the Ravenshorn. He was conscious, too, of the valley all about, encased in mist and the half-light of a dusk that rapidly approached. Brief images slipped past the corners of his vision and were quickly forgotten, for none of that mattered now. Nothing mattered but the climb and what waited at its end.
Heaven’s Well.
And Brin. He would find her again in the waters of the well. He would discover what had become of her, and he would learn what it was that he must do to help her. The King of the Silver River had promised him that he would find a way to give Brin back to herself.
His boot slid out from under him suddenly as he stepped on a patch of crumbling stone and he fell forward, his hands scraping as he caught himself. Quickly he pushed back up again and hurried on, heedless of the damage.
Ahead, the other two ran effortlessly on-Garet Jax and Slanter, the last of the little company that had come north from Culhaven. Bitterness and anger flooded through the Valeman. Flashes of light danced before his eyes as he fought for breath momentarily, exhaustion sweeping through him. But they were almost at their journey’s end.
The stone spiral of the Croagh swung suddenly right, and the wall of the peak toward which they climbed rose close before them, rugged and stark against the graying sky. Ahead, the stairway ascended to the dark mouth of a cavern that opened back into the heart of the mountain. Less than two dozen steps remained.
Garet Jax motioned for them to wait, then soundlessly climbed the last few stairs to the summit of the Croagh and stepped out onto the ledge. He stood there a moment, his black form framed against the afternoon sky, lean and shadowy. He was like something inhuman, the thought flashed briefly through Jair’s mind, like something that wasn’t real.
The Weapons Master turned, gray eyes fixing on him. One hand beckoned.
“Hurry, boy,” Slanter muttered.
They scrambled up the remaining steps of the Croagh and stood beside Garet Jax. The cavern loomed before them, a monstrous chamber split by dozens of crevices that let in the light from without in dim, hazy streamers. Close about, the shadows gathered, and within their blackness nothing moved.
“Can’t see anything from here,” Slanter grumbled. He started forward, but instantly Garet Jax pulled him back.
“Wait, Gnome,” he said. “There’s something there...something that waits...”
His voice trailed away softly. A stillness settled down about them, deep and oppressive. Even the wind that stirred the mists of the valley seemed to die suddenly away. Jair caught his breath and held it. There was indeed something there-waiting. He could feel its presence.
“Garet...” he began softly.
“Shhhhh.”
Then a shadow detached itself from the rocks within the cavern entrance, and Jair went cold to the bone. Silently, the shadow slipped through the gloom. It was nothing that any of them had ever seen. It was neither a Gnome nor a Wraith, but a powerfully built creature, almost man-shaped, with a thick ruff about its loins and great, hooked claws at its fingers and toes. Cruel yellow eyes fixed on them, and a scarred, bestial face split wide at its snout to reveal a mass of crooked teeth.
The thing came forward into the light and stopped. It was not black like the Wraiths. It was red.
“What is it?” Jair whispered, fighting to contain the sense of revulsion that swept through him.
The Jachyra gave a sudden cry-a howl that rang through the silence like hideous laughter.
“Valeman, it is the dream!” Garet Jax cried, a strange, wild look crossing his hard face. Slowly he lowered the blade of the sword until it touched the ledge rock. Then he turned to Jair. “Journey’s end,” he whispered.
Jair shook his head in confusion. “Garet, what...?”
“The dream! The vision that I told you about that night in the rain when we first spoke of the King of the Silver River! The dream that brought me east with you, Valeman-this is it!”
“But the dream showed you a thing of fire...” Jair stammered.
“Fire, yes-that was how it appeared!” Garet Jax cut him short. He let his breath out slowly. “Until now, I thought that perhaps-in a way that I could not fathom-I had mistaken what I had seen. But in the dream, as I stood before the fire and the voice that told me what I must do died away, the fire cried out like a thing alive. It was a cry that was almost a laugh-the cry that this creature has given!”’
His gray eyes burned. “Valeman, this is the battle that I was promised!”
Before them, the Jachyra dropped into a crouch and began sidling forward from the cavern. Garet Jax brought the sword up at once.
“You mean to fight this thing?” Slanter was incredulous.
The other never even looked at him. “Keep back from me.”
“This is a poor idea if ever there was one!” Slanter looked frightened. “You know nothing of this creature. If it is poisonous like the one that attacked the Borderman...”
“I am not the Borderman, Gnome.” Garet Jax watched intently as the Jachyra approached. “I am the Weapons Master. And I have never lost a battle.”
The cold eyes flickered briefly in their direction and then fixed once more on the Jachyra. Jair started toward him, but Slanter grabbed his shoulder roughly and pulled him back again. “No, you don’t,” the Gnome snapped. “He wants this fight-let him have it! Never lost a battle! Lost his mind, that’s what he’s lost!”
Garet Jax was gliding forward across the ledge to where the Jachyra had stopped. “Take the Valeman into the cavern and find the well, Gnome. Do it when the creature comes for me. Do what you have come here to do. Remember the pledge.”
Jair was frantic. Helt, Foraker, Edain Elessedil-all lost in an effort to get him to the basin at Heaven’s Well. And now Garet Jax as well?
But it was already too late. The Jachyra screamed once and launched itself at Garet Jax, a blur of motion as it shot across the ledge rock. It leaped up against the Weapons Master, claws ripping. But the black form slipped aside as if it were no more than the shadow it resembled. The sword blade cut into the attacker-once, twice-so quickly the eye could barely follow. The Jachyra howled and slipped free, circling away for another rush.
Garet Jax wheeled, his lean face fierce, gray eyes bright with excitement. “Go, Jair Ohmsford!” he cried. “When it comes for me again-go!”
Anger and frustration tore at the Valeman as Slanter pulled him away. He would not go!
“Boy, I’m through arguing with you!” Slanter cried in fury.
Again the Jachyra attacked, and again Garet Jax sidestepped the rush, his slender sword flicking. Bill he was a fraction of a second too slow this time. The claws of the Jachyra ripped through the sleeve of his tunic and into his arm. Jair cried out, pulling free of Slanter.
Slanter spun him about and hit him. The blow caught him squarely on the chin. There was an instant of blinding light, and then everything went black.
The last thing he remembered was falling.
When he came awake again, Slanter was kneeling next to him. The Gnome had pulled him upright and into a sitting position and was shaking him roughly.
“Get up, boy! Get on your feet!”
The words were hard and filled with anger, and Jair scrambled up quickly. They were deep within the cavern now. Slanter must have carried him in. What little light there was came from cracks in the broken rock of the cavern’s roof.
The Gnome yanked him about. “What did you think you were doing back there?”
Jair was still dazed. “I couldn’t let him...
“Off to the rescue with your tricks, were you?” the other cut him short. “You don’t understand anything-you know that? You really don’t understand anything! What is it that you think we’re doing here? You think we’re playing some kind of game?” Slanter was livid. “There’s choices been made long before this about living and dying, boy! You can’t change that. You don’t have the right! All of the others-all of them-died because that was the way it had to be! That was the way they wanted it! And why do you think that was?”
The Valeman shook his head. “I...”
“Because of you! They died because they believed in what it was that you had come here to do-every last one of them! Even I would have...” He caught himself and took a deep breath. “It would have done a lot of good if you’d gone dashing to the rescue back there and gotten yourself killed, now wouldn’t it? A whole lot of sense that would have made!”
He wheeled Jair about and shoved him ahead into the cave. “Enough time’s been wasted on teaching you things you ought to know already-time we don’t have! I’m all that’s left, and I’m not going to be much help to you if the walkers find us now. The others-they were the real protectors, looking out for me as much as for you!”
The Valeman slowed and half turned. “What’s happened to Garet, Slanter?”
The other shook his head darkly. “He fights his promised battle-just as he wished.” He pushed Jair again and hurried him on. “Find your well quickly, boy. Find it and do what you came here to do. Make all of this madness count for something!”
Jair ran with him and said nothing more, his face flushed with shame. He understood the Gnome’s anger. Slanter was right. He had acted without thinking-without consideration for what the others of the little company had given up for him. His intentions might have been good, but his judgment had been poor indeed.
Ahead, the shadows fell away in a haze of graying sunlight that poured down through a massive crevice in the mountain stone. In the floor of the cavern, caught in the half-light, foul black water bubbled up from out of the rock in a broad Basin, pumped in some impossible way through thousands of feet of stone from the depths of the earth. Gathering and churning, it gushed through a slot at one end of the basin into a worn channel, then poured through-an opening in the mountain wall to tumble to the canyons below, where it began its long journey west to become the Silver River.
Gnome and Valeman slowed cautiously, eyes darting through gloom and hazy spray to the deep niches and corners of the cavern’s dark ends. Nothing moved. Only the flow of the blackened waters gave evidence of life, a terrible rush of poison that steamed and boiled as it lifted from the wellspring. All about, the stench of the Maelmord hung like a shroud.
Jair went forward once more, eyes fixed on the basin that was Heaven’s Well. How perverse that name seemed to him now as he gazed upon the fouled waters. Silver River no more, he thought dismally, and he wondered how even the magic of the old man could change it back to what it had once been. Slowly, he reached into his tunic front and his fingers closed about the tiny pouch of Silver Dust that he had carried with him all through his long journey east. He slipped the drawstrings free and peered within. The dust lay gathered, like ordinary sand.
And if it were only sand...?
“Quit wasting time!” Slanter snapped.
Jair moved to the edge of the basin, conscious of the sludge that choked the well’s dark waters and of the reek. It could not be only sand! He swallowed against that fear, remembering Brin...
“Throw it!” Slanter cried angrily.
Jair’s hand jerked up, flinging the Silver Dust from its pouch, scattering it in a wide sweep across the surface of the fouled well. The tiny grains flew from the darkness of their container; and in the light of the cavern they seemed suddenly to sparkle and shimmer. They touched the waters and flared to life. A sheet of brilliant silver fire burst from the dark well. Jair and Slanter recoiled, shielding their eyes with their hands, blinded by the glare.
“The magic!” Jair cried.
Hissing and boiling, the waters of Heaven’s Well exploded skyward, raining down across the length and breadth of the cavern, showering the two who crouched at the basin’s walls. Then a rush of clean air seemed to spring to life, born out of the shower of water. Gnome and Valeman stared in awe and disbelief. Before them, the waters of Heaven’s Well bubbled clear and fresh from the mountain rock. The stench and the black, poisoned color were gone. The Silver River was clean once more.
Quickly, Jair took from around his neck the vision crystal and its silver chain. There was no hesitation now. He moved back to the basin and climbed to a small outcropping of rock that overlooked it. He heard again in his mind the King of the Silver River telling him what he must do if he were to save Brin.
His hand tightened on the crystal, and he stared downward into the waters of the basin. All of the weariness and pain seemed to seep away in that single instant.
He threw the crystal and the chain into the basin’s depths. There was a blinding flash of light-a flash greater than that created by the scattering of the Silver Dust-and the whole of the cavern seemed to explode in white fire. Jair dropped to his knees in fright, hearing Slanter’s harsh cry behind him, and for an instant he thought that something had gone terribly wrong. But then the light fell away into the surface of the basin’s waters, and the waters became as smooth and clear as glass.
The answer-show me the answer!
An image spread slowly across the mirrored surface, shimmering like a thing of transparency, then tightening. A tower room appeared, cavernous and flooded with musted, graying light, and there was an oppression that was almost palpable. Jair shrank from what he felt as he watched the room broaden and begin to draw him in.
And then the face of his sister appeared...
Brin Ohmsford felt the eyes looking at her, seeing all that she was and would become, then reaching to draw her close. Though wrapped within layers of magic as the power of the Ildatch built within her, she sensed the eyes and her own snapped up.
Stay from me! she howled. I am the dark child!
But that tiny part of her that the magic had not subverted knew the eyes and sought their help. Trapped thoughts broke from their shackles within her mind, fleeing like sheep from wolves that hunted, crying out and striving to reach shelter. She saw them, and the discovery filled her with fury. She reached for the scattered thoughts as they fled and she crushed them, one by one. Childhood, home, parents, friends-the disparate pieces of what she had been before she had found what she could be-she crushed them all.
Her voice found release then in a wail of anguish, and even the aged walls of the dark tower shook with the force of her keening. What had she done? There was pain within her now, brought about by the harm she had caused. A brief moment’s insight flooded through her, and she heard the echo of the Grimpond’s prophecy. It was her own death, indeed, that she had come into the Maelmord to find that she had found! But it was not the death that she had supposed. It was the death of self through her entrapment by the magic! She was destroying herself!
But even in the horror of that realization, she could not release the Ildatch. She was caught up in the feel of the magic’s power as it built and expanded like flood waters gathering. Before her, she held the book in a death grip, hearing its dispassionate voice whisper in encouragement and promise. Her pain was forgotten. The eyes were swept away. There was only the voice. She listened to its words, unable not to, and the world began to open up before her...
At the basin of Heaven’s Well, Jair staggered back from the vision of his sister. Was it truly Brin whom he had seen? Horror flooded through him as he forced himself to view again the apparition that the waters had shown him. It was his sister, but twisted into a thing barely recognizable-a perversion of the human being she had once been. She was lost to herself-just as the King of the Silver River had said she would be.
And Allanon! Where was Allanon? Where was Rone? Had they failed her as he had failed her by reaching Heaven’s Well too late?
Tears streaked Jair Ohmsford’s face. It had come to pass as the old man had warned that it would-everything as he had foreseen. A terrible desperation filled the Valeman. He was all that was left. Allanon, Brin, Rone, the little company from Culhaven, all were gone.
“Boy, what is it that you do?” he heard Slanter call to him “Get back from there and use what sense...”
Jair closed his ears and his mind to the rest of what the Gnome would have told him, his eyes fixing once more on the apparition in the basin’s waters. It was Brin that he saw there, however twisted. It was Brin, gone down into the Maelmord, drawn to the book of the Ildatch, subverted somehow by the magic she had come to destroy.
And he must go to her. Even if it were too late, he must try to help her.
He came to his feet again, remembering the final gift of the King of the Silver River. “Once only shall the magic of your wishsong be used to create not illusion, but reality.”
He brushed aside the confusion, horror, fear, and despair, and he sang. The music of the wishsong rose up in the stillness of the cavern, flooding the silence and drowning the sudden cries of protest that broke from Slanter’s throat. Pain and weariness faded into yesterday as.he cried out for the wish. The brilliant white light of the basin waters shimmered again in the air above Heaven’s Well, and again the spray geysered skyward.
Slanter staggered away, blinded and deafened. When he finally looked back again, Jair Ohmsford had disappeared into the light.
There was a moment when Jair seemed to step outside of himself. He was within the light and yet he was gone from it. He passed through stone and space like an insubstantial ghost, and the whole of the land spun wildly about him. Brief images appeared out of that whirling mass. Slanter was there, his roughened yellow face staring in shock and disbelief at the empty basin from which Jair had passed. Garet Jax was locked in mortal combat with the red monster, his lean face alive with fierce determination and his dark form bloodied and torn. Gnome Hunters scurried in maddened confusion through the halls of Graymark, searching frantically for the intruders that had somehow eluded them. Helt had fallen in the gatehouse, his body pierced through by sword and pike. Foraker and the Elven Prince were ringed all about...
No more!
He screamed the words, wrenching at them like rooted things from the music of his song, and the images fell away. He plummeted downward, racing on the slick surface of the wishsong’s cry. He had to reach Brin!
Below, the tangle of the Maelmord lifted toward him. He could see its dark mass rising and falling like a thing alive and could hear the sound of its breathing, a loathsome hiss. Mountain walls swept past him as he fell, and he watched the jungle stretch out its arms to gather him in. Panic filled him. Then he plunged into the Maelmord; its gaping maw closed about him, the stench and the mist enveloped him, and everything disappeared.
Jair came back to himself slowly. Darkness lay across his vision like a shroud, and his head spun. He blinked, and the light returned. He was no longer falling through the vortex of the wishsong’s music or plummeting downward into the tangled dark of the Maelmord. His journey was finished. The stone walls of the tower he had sought to reach surrounded him, aged and crumbling. He stood within them, a part of the vision that the waters of the basin of Heaven”s Well had shown him.
“Brin!” he whispered harshly.
A figure turned, ringed in shadows and graying half-light, slight hands clasping firmly a massive, metalbound book.
Brin was a distortion of the woman she had once been, her features twisted almost beyond recognition. All of the exquisite beauty and vibrancy of form had hardened into something that might have been carved from stone. She was an apparition, her color drained away and her slight form skeletal and hunched down against the dark. Horror flooded through Jair. What had been done to her?
“Brin?” he called again, his voice faltering.
Wrapped in the frightening power of the Ildatch magic as it rushed to mix with her own, Brin was barely aware of the solitary figure who stood at the far side of the tower room. He called to her-a soft, familiar call. She fought back for an instant, through the layers of magic that wove about her to the reason that had fled deep within her, and memory returned. Jair! Ah, shades-it was Jair!
But the dark magic tightened again, stealing her back. The power surged through her, washing away all recognition of who it was she faced, bringing her back to the creature she had made herself become. Doubt and suspicion twisted through her, and the empty voice of the Ildatch whispered in warning.
He is evil, dark child. A deception given life by the Wraiths. Keep him from you. Destroy him-No, it is Jair...somehow he has come...Jair...
He would steal the power that is ours. He would make us die-No, Jair...has come...
Destroy him, dark child. Destroy him-
She could not seem to help herself. Her resistance crumbled, and her voice lifted in a frightening wail. But Jair had seen the sudden look of hatred in his sister’s eyes, and he was already moving. He sang, his own magic shielding him as he slipped from himself and left behind an image. Even so, he barely escaped her. The explosion of sound that broke from Brin’s throat disintegrated the image and the wall behind it instantly and caught him up in the aftershock, throwing him like an empty sack to the stone floor. Dust and silt swirled through the halflight, and the ancient tower rocked with the force of the attack.
Slowly, Jair crawled back to his knees, crouching down within the screen of debris that hung on the air. For an instant, his certainty that he had used the third magic wisely wavered. It had seemed so clear to him when he had first seen Brin in the waters of Heaven’s Well. He had known that he must go to her. But now that he had reached her, what was he to do? As the King of the Silver River had foretold, she was lost to herself. She had become something unrecognizable, subverted by the dark magic of the Ildatch. But it was more than that, for not only had she changed, but the magic of her wishsong had also changed. It had become a thing of awesome power, a weapon she would use against him, not knowing who he was, not remembering him at all. How was he to help her when she meant to destroy him?
A moment’s time was all that he had to consider the dilemma. He came back to his feet. Allanon might have had the strength to withstand such power. Rone might have had the quickness to elude it. The little company from Culhaven might have had the numbers to overwhelm it. But they were all gone. All those who might have stood by him were no more. Whatever help he was to find, he must find within himself.
He slipped quickly through the screen of smoke and silt. He knew that if he were to be of any use to Brin, he must first find a way to separate her from the Ildatch.
The air cleared before him, and Brin’s shadowy figure appeared a dozen yards away. Instantly he sang, the wishsong a sharp humming sound in the stillness, carrying in its music a whispered plea. Brin, it called. The book is too heavy, its weight too great. Release it, Brin. Let it fall!
For a brief second, Brin’s hands came down, her head lowering in doubt. It appeared the illusion would work and that she would release the Ildatch. Then a fury swept across her gaunt face, and the cry of her wishsong shattered the air into fragments of sound, breaking apart Jair’s plea.
The Valeman stumbled back. He tried again, this time with an illusion of fire, a hiss that scattered flames all about the binding of the ancient tome. Brin screamed, an animal-like cry, but then clasped the book to her as if she might smother the fire against her own body. Her head twisted about, her eyes darting. She was looking for him. She meant to find him and use the magic against him, to see him destroyed.
His song changed again, this time creating an illusion of smoke that billowed in clouds through the chamber. But she would be fooled for only a few moments. He dodged back about the walls of the tower, trying to come at her from a different direction. He sang again, this time sending to her a whisper of darkness, deep and impenetrable. He must be quicker than she was. He must keep her off balance.
He sped about the tower’s shadows like a ghost, striking out at Brin with every trick he knew-with heat and cold, with dark and light, with pain, and with anger. Twice she lashed out blindly at him with her own magic, a searing burst of power that-threw him from his feet and left him shaken. She seemed confused, somehow uncertain-as if unable to decide whether or not to use the whole of the power that she had summoned. But even so, she kept the Ildatch clasped tight against her, whispering to it soundlessly, grasping it as if it were her life-source. Nothing that Jair tried would make her release the book.
It is no game that he was playing now, he thought darkly, remembering Slanter’s scathing rebuke.
He was beginning to tire rapidly. Weakened by his battle to gain Heaven’s Well, by his wound, and by the strain of his prolonged use of the wishsong, he was becoming exhausted. He did not have the power of the dark magic to sustain him as did Brin; he had only his own determination. It was not enough, he feared. He slipped back and forth through the gloom and the shadows, searching for a way to break through his sister’s defenses. His breathing was labored and uneven; his strength was ebbing away.
In desperation; he used the wishsong as he had used it at Culhaven before the Dwarf Council of Elders to create a vision of Allanon. From the haze that lay over the battered chamber, he brought forth the Druid, dark and commanding, one arm stretched forth. Release the book of Ildatch, Brin Ohmsford! the deep voice admonished. Let it fall!
The Valegirl staggered back against the altar, a look of recognition crossing her face. Her lips moved, whispering frantically to the Ildatch-as if speaking to it in warning. Then the look of recognition was gone. High above her head she lifted the book and her song rang out in a wail of anger. The image of Allanon shattered.
Jair slipped away again, cloaked in a whisper of invisibility. He was beginning to despair. Would nothing help Brin? Would nothing bring her back? What was he to do? Frantically, he tried to recall the words spoken to him by the old man: Throw the vision crystal after, and the answer will be shown you. But what answer had he seen? He had tried everything he could think to try. He had used the wishsong to create every illusion he knew how to create. What was left?
He stopped himself. Illusion!
Not illusion-but reality!
And suddenly he had his answer.
Red fire exploded all about Rone, deflecting from the blade of his sword as he stood against the Mord Wraiths’ frightening assault. The walkers crouched on the stone stairway of the Croagh, a line of dark forms winding down out of the cliffs and fortress above, shrouded in smoke and mist against the gray backdrop of the dying afternoon sky. Half a dozen arms lifted and the flames hammered at the highlander, staggering him with their force. Kimber crouched behind him, shielding her face and eyes from the heat and flying rock. Whisper screamed in hatred from beneath the shadow of the stairs, lunging at the black figures as they sought to break past.
“Cogline!” Rone bellowed in desperation, fire and smoke swirling all about him as he sought the old man.
Slowly the Mord Wraiths worked their way closer. There were too many; the power of the dark magic was too great. He could not stand against them all.
“Cogline! For cat’s sake!”
A cloaked form broke toward him from the shadows above, fire spewing from both hands. Rone swung the blade about frantically, catching the arc of flame and deflecting it. But the walker was almost on top of him, the sound of its voice a sudden hiss that rose above the explosion. Then Whisper hurtled from his shelter, caught the black thing and bore it away. Moor cat and Wraith tumbled into a fountain of flame and smoke and vanished from view.
“Cogline!” Rone screamed one final time.
Abruptly the old man appeared, crooked and bent, shambling out of the billowing smoke with his white hair flying. “Stand, outlander! I’ll show the black ones fire that will truly burn!”
Howling as if gone mad, he flung a handful of crystals into the midst of the Mord Wraiths. They glittered like pieces of obsidian as they tumbled down among the dark forms and were caught in the streaks of red fire. Instantly they exploded, and white-hot flames flared skyward in a burst of blinding light. Thunder rocked the mountainside, and whole sections of the Croagh flew apart, carrying the dark forms of the Mord Wraiths with them.
“Burn, you black things!” Cogline shrilled with glee.
But the walkers were not so easily dispatched. Dark shadows, they swept back through the haze of debris and smoke, and the red fire erupted from their fingers. Cogline screamed as the fire reached him and disappeared. Flames encircled Rone and the girl he sheltered, and the walkers came for them in a rush. Sounding the battle cry of his ancestors, the highlander swung the ebony blade into their midst. Two shattered instantly, turned to ash, but the others came on. Clawed fingers closed about the sword and bore him back.
Then they were all about him.
Worn by the strain that the magic’s flow caused within her body and confused by the conflicting emotions that wracked her, Brin stood before the altar on the dais that housed the Ildatch, the book clasped tightly to her. The light failed within the tower room, and the air hung thick with dust and silt. The thing was still out there, the thing that taunted her so, the thing that had taken the form of her brother Jair. Though she sought to find it and destroy it, she could not seem to do so. The magics within her were somehow incomplete-as if for some reason they would not blend. They were one, she knew-the book and she. They were joined. The voice still whispered to her that it was so-whispered of the power that belonged to them both. Why was it so difficult then for her to bring that power to bear?
You fight it, dark child. You resist it. Give yourself over-
Then the air exploded about her, the magic of the one she hunted bursting through dust and half-light, and dozens of images of her brother filled the chamber. All about her the images appeared, slipping through the haze toward the dais, calling out her name. She staggered away, stunned. Jair! Are you truly here? Jair...?
They are evil, dark child. Destroy them. Destroy-
Obedient to the voice of the Ildatch, though she recognized still from somewhere deep within that it was wrong, she lashed out with her magic, the sound of the wishsong filling the cavernous room. One by one, the images disintegrated before her eyes, and it was as if she were killing Jair over and over again, destroying him anew with each image shattered. But still the images came, those that remained closing the gap between them, reaching for her, touching...
Then she screamed. There were arms about her, arms of flesh and blood, warm and alive, and Jair was before her, holding her close. He was real, not imagined, but a living being, and he spoke to her through the wishsong. Images filled her mind, images of who they had been and who they were, of childhood and beyond-all that had been in their lives and all that now was. Shady Vale was there, the clustered buildings of the community in which she had grown, the clapboard dwellings mingled with stone cottages and thatched-roof hues, and the people settled back at day’s close for an evening meal and the small pleasures that come with a joining together of family and friends. The inn was filled with laughter and small talk, bright with candle and oil light. Her home showed, its walks and hedges folded in shadow, the aged trees colored by autumn’s touch and ablaze with fading streaks of sunlight. Her father’s strong face was smiling in reassurance, her mother’s dark hand reaching to stroke her cheek. Rone Leah was there, and her friends, and.... One by one the supports that had been stripped from her and so ruthlessly crushed were put back again. The images flooded through her, clear, sweet, and strangely cleansing, filled with love and reassurance. Weeping, Brin collapsed into her brother’s embrace.
The voice of the Ildatch lashed out at her.
Destroy him! Destroy him! You are the dark child-
But she did not destroy him. Lost in the weave of the images that swept through her and tapped deep into a wellspring of memories she had thought lost forever, she could feel the person that she had once been returning. That part of her which had been, lost was being put back again. The ties of the magics that had bound her close began to loosen, drawing back and leaving her free.
The voice of the Ildatch was suddenly frantic.
No! You must not release me! You must hold me close. You are the dark child-
Ah, but she was not! She felt it now, sensed it through the fabric of the lies that she had been persuaded to accept. She was not the dark child!
Jair’s face lifted before her as if from out of a deep fog. His familiar features blurred and then sharpened, and he was speaking softly to her.
“I love you, Brin. I love you.”
“Jair,” she whispered in reply.
“Do what you were sent here to do, Brin-what Allanon said you must. Do it quickly.”
One final time she brought the Ildatch high above her head. She was not the dark child nor was the book the servant that it had claimed to be. It had said that she would be master of its power, but it had lied. No living thing became master of the dark magic-only its slave. There could be no joining of flesh and blood to the magic; however well intentioned. In the end, any use of it must destroy the user. She saw is clearly now and felt a sudden panic spring from the book. It was alive and is could feel; let it, then! It would have subverted her; it would have drained her life from her as it had drained the lives of so many and turned her into a thing as dark and twisted as the walkers, the Skull Bearers before them, or the Warlock Lord himself. It would have set her loose upon the Four Lands and all who lived within them, to bring the darkness again...
With a heave, she threw the book from her. It struck the stone flooring of the tower with stunning force. The bindings shattered, breaking apart. Pages ripped and scattered.
Then Brin Ohmsford used the wishsong. It sounded hard and quick as it caught up the remnants of the book in its power and turned the Ildatch to impotent dust.
At the edge of the Croagh, on the cliffs below Graymark, Rone felt the clawed fingers of the Mord Wraiths release their grip as if stung by a fire they could not master. The cloaked forms drew back, writhing and twisting against the gray light of the slowly darkening sky. Their voices sounded as one in the sudden silence, a shriek of anguish and terror. All along the length of the Croagh leading down to the ledge where Rone had struggled to hold them, the Wraiths convulsed like shaken rag dolls.
“Rone!” Kimber screamed, pulling him clear of where the foremost of the black things stumbled blindly about.
Flames burst from out of Wraiths’ fingers and exploded from their cowled faces. Then, one after another, they disintegrated, falling apart like shattered earthed statues, crumbling and drifting to the stone of the ledge. In seconds, the Mord Wraiths were no more.
“Rone, what happened to them?” the girl whispered harshly, her stunned voice drifting in the stillness.
The highlander’s hands still clasped the pommel of the Sword of Leah as he came back to his feet, his head slaking slowly. Smoke and debris drifted in the air across the mountain face, swirling hazily about them. The battered form of Whisper appeared like a ghost out of its curtain.
“Brin” Rone murmured softly in answer to Kimber’s question. He shook his head in disbelief. “It was Brin.”
And then he felt the first of the earth tremors ripple through the mountainside from the Maelmord.
Exhausted, Brin Ohmsford stared at the blackened stone of the tower floor where the remains of the Ildatch settled in a fine dust.
“Here is your dark child,” she whispered bitterly, tears streaking her face.
A deep shudder wracked the tower, rolling out of the earth and spreading through the aged walls. Stone and timber began to sag and crack, crumbling with the vibrations that wrenched at it. Brin’s head. jerked up, her eyes blinking against the shower of silt and dust that rained down into her face.
“Jair...?” she tried to call to him.
But her brother was slipping from her, flesh and blood dissolving back into the hazy air, an apparition once more. A look of disbelief reflected in the Valeman’s face, and it seemed as if he were trying to tell her something. His shadowy form lingered a moment longer in the half-light of the tower’s gloom, and then he was gone.
Stricken, Brin stared after him. Great chunks of the tower’s stone began to fall about her, and she knew she could not stay. The dark magic of the Ildatch had come to an end, and everything it had made was dying.
“But I am going to live!” she whispered fiercely.
Gathering her cloak about her, she turned and ran from the empty room.
The silver light flared above the waters gathered in the basin of Heaven’s Well and an apprehensive Slanter stumbled back away once more. There was an explosion of shimmering brilliance, a radiance as intense and blinding as the cresting of the sun at dawn, reaching out through the fading of the night. It streaked through the cavern’s dark shadows, burst into shards of white fire, and was gone.
Wincing, Slanter looked back again at the stone basin. Standing worn and battered at its edge was Jair Ohmsford.
“Boy!” the Gnome cried, a mix of concern and relief in his voice as he rushed to meet the Valeman.
Jair slumped forward in exhaustion, and the other caught him about the waist. “I couldn’t bring her out, Slanter,” he whispered. “I tried, but the magic wasn’t strong enough. I had to leave her.”
“Here, here-just take a moment to catch your breath,” Slanter growled as the Valeman stumbled over his words. “Sit here by the basin.”
He eased Jair down against the stone wall, then knelt next to him. The Valeman’s eyes lifted. “I went down into the Maelmord, Slanter-or at least a part of me did. I used the third magic-the one that the King of the Silver River gave to me to help Brin. It took me into the light and then out of myself-as if there were two of me. I went down into the pit where the vision crystal had shown me Brin. She was there, in a tower, and she had the Ildatch. But it had changed her, Slanter. She had become something...terrible...”
“Easy, boy. Slow down, now.” The Gnome held his gaze. “Did you find a way to help her?”
Jair nodded, swallowing. “She was changed, but I knew that if I could just reach her, if I could touch her and she could touch me-then she Would be all right. I used the wishsong to show her who she was, what she meant to me...to let her know that I loved her!” He was fighting back the tears. “And she destroyed the Ildatch-she turned it to dust! But when she did, the tower began to crumble, and something happened to the magic. I couldn’t stay with her. I couldn’t bring her back with me. I tried, but it happened so quickly. I couldn’t even manage to tell her what was happening! She just...disappeared, and I was back here again...
He dropped his head between his knees, choking. Slanter gripped his shoulders with rough, gnarled hands and squeezed.
“You did the best you could for her, boy. You did everything you could. You can’t blame yourself for not being able to do more.” He shook his wizened face. “Shades, I don’t know how it is that you’re still alive! I thought you lost in the magic! I didn’t think I’d ever see you again!”
Then he hugged Jair impulsively to him and whispered. “You got more sand than I do, boy-a whole lot more!”
He pulled away then, embarrassed by his action, muttering something about no one really knowing what they were doing in all this confusion. He was about to say something more when the tremors began-a series of deep, heavy rumblings that shook the mountain to its core.
“What’s happening now?” he exclaimed, glancing back across his shoulder into the shadows that shrouded the passageway that had brought them in.
“It’s the Maelmord,” Jair replied at once, pushing himself hurriedly back to his feet. The wound in his shoulder throbbed and ached as he straightened against the basin wall, and he clutched at the Gnome for support. “Slanter, we have to go back for Brin. She’s alone down there. We have to help her.”
The Gnome gave him a quick, fierce smile in reply. “Of course, we do, boy. You and me. We’ll get her out. We’ll go down into that black pit and we’ll find her! Now here, put your arm about my shoulders and hold on.”
With Jair clinging tightly to him, the Gnome began to retrace their steps back through the cavern toward the stairway that had brought them in. Dusk had settled down across the land, and the sun had slipped behind the rim of the mountains. Small slivers of the dying light fell through crevices in the rock to mingle with the twilight shadows as the two companions stumbled resolutely ahead. The tremors continued, slow and steady, a grim reminder that time was slipping from them. Chunks of rock and dirt showered down about them, forming a haze that hung like mist in the still evening air. There was a low rumbling in the distance like the thunder of an approaching storm.
Then they were clear of the cavern once more, passing from its darkened mouth onto the ledge that ran down to the Croagh. In the east, the moon and a scattering of stars were already visible in the velvet sky. Shadows lay in dappled patterns across the ledge face, closing about the last patches of fading light like inkstains spreading on new paper.
In the midst of the shadows and the half-light lay Garet Jax.
Stunned, Jair and Slanter came forward. The Weapons Master lay back against a gathering of rocks, his black-clad form torn and bloodied, the slender sword still gripped in one hand. His eyes were closed, as if he slept. Hesitating, Slanter knelt beside him.
“Is he dead?” Jair whispered, barely able to make himself speak the words.
The Gnome bent close for a moment, then drew back again. Slowly, he nodded. “Yes, boy-he’s dead. He finally found something that could kill him-something that was as good as he was.” There was grudging disbelief in his voice. “He looked hard enough and long enough to find it, didn’t he?”
Jair did not answer. He was thinking of the times the Weapons Master had saved his life, rescuing him when no one else could. Garet Jax, his protector.
He would have cried if he had been able, but there were no tears left to shed.
Slanter came to his feet and stood looking down at the still form. “Always wondered what it would be that would finally kill him,” the Gnome muttered. “Had to be something made of the dark magic, I guess. Couldn’t be anything made of this world. Not with him.”
He turned and glanced about apprehensively. “Wonder what’s become of the red thing?”
Tremors shook the mountain, and the rumbling rolled out of the valley. Jair barely heard it. “He destroyed it, Slanter. Garet Jax destroyed it. And when the Ildatch was shattered, the dark magic took it back.”
“Could have happened that way, I guess.”
“It did happen that way. This was the battle he had been seeking the whole of his life. It meant everything to him. He wouldn’t have lost it.”
The Gnome glanced over at him sharply. “You don’t know that for sure, boy. You don’t know that he was a match for that thing.”
Jair looked at him then and nodded. “Yes, I do, Slanter. I do. He was a match for anything. He was the best.”
There was a long moment of silence between them. Then the Gnome nodded, too. “Yes, I guess he was.”
Again the tremors shook the mountain, reverberating out of the deep rock. Slanter caught hold of Jair’s arm and gently turned him away. “We can’t stay, boy. We have to find your sister right away.”
Jair glanced back at the still form of the Weapons Master one final time and then forced his eyes away. “Good-bye, Garet Jax,” he whispered.
Together, Gnome and Valeman hastened to the stairway of the Croagh and started down.
Brin ran through the dim and misted tangle of the Maelmord, free at last of the tower of the Ildatch. Deep tremors wracked the valley floor, shudders that rippled the peaks of the mountains all about. The dark magic was gone from the land, and with, its passing the Maelmord could not survive. The rise and fall of its breathing and the hiss that had whispered of its unnatural life were stilled.
Where am I? Brin wondered frantically, her eyes casting through the gathering shadows. What has become of the Croagh?
She knew that she was hopelessly lost. She had been from the moment that she had fled the tower. Nightfall lay over the whole of the valley, and she was deep within a graveyard where all signs appeared as one and no path showed itself. Through the webbing of limbs and vines overhead, she could see the rim of the mountains that ringed the valley pit, but the stem of the Croagh lay wrapped in darkness against their backdrop. The Maelmord had become an impossible maze, and she was caught within it.
She was exhausted, her strength drained by prolonged use of the wishsong and by her long journey down into the pit. She was lost, and the magic no longer gave her sight. And all about her, the tremors continued to shake the valley floor, forewarning of the destruction of the Maelmord and everything caught within it. Only her spirit remained strong, and it was her spirit that kept her moving now in search of an escape.
The ground sank sharply beneath her feet, giving way with a suddenness that was frightening. Brin stumbled and nearly went down. The Maelmord was breaking up. It was crumbling beneath her, and she knew now that she would be carried with it.
She slowed to a weary halt, gasping for breach. It was pointless to go on. She was running to no purpose, blind and directionless. Even the vaunted magic of the wishsong, should she choose to use it, could not save her now. Why had Jair abandoned her? Why had he gone? Despair washed through her at the terrible sense of betrayal-despair and unreasoning anger. But she fought back against those feelings, knowing that they were senseless and unfair. Jair would not have left her unless he had been given no choice. Whatever had brought him to her had simply taken him back again.
Or perhaps what she had thought was Jair was not and what she had seen and felt had not even been real. Perhaps it had all been something that in her madness she had dreamed...
“Jair!” she screamed.
The echo of her voice broke against the rumblings of the earth and then was gone. The ground sank further beneath her.
Resolutely, stubbornly, she turned and went on. She no longer ran, too wearied to run further. Her dusky face hardened with determination, and she brushed everything from her mind but the need to put one foot before the other. She would not give up. She would go on. When she could no longer walk upright, she would crawl. But she would go on.
Then suddenly a shadow bounded from the tangled dark, huge, lean, and ghostly. It came toward her and she cried out in fright. A massive whiskered face rubbed against her body, and luminous blue eyes blinked in greeting. It was Whisper! She fell against the moor cat in grateful disbelief, crying openly, wrapping her arms about the shaggy neck. Whisper had come for her!
The moor cat turned and started away at once, drawing her with him. She fastened one hand in the ruff of his neck and stumbled after. They slipped through the maze of the dying jungle. All about them, the rumblings grew and tremors shook the earth. Rotted limbs began to crash down about them. Steam smelling rank and fetid geysered from cracks that split the hardened earth. Boulders and slides broke away from the cliffs that walled the valley close and came tumbling through the dark.
Yet somehow they reached the Croagh, its coiled length materializing abruptly out of the gloom, rising from the valley floor into the night. The giant cat bounded onto the stairway with Brin a step behind. The Valegirl scrambled upward, groping her way uncertainly as the rumblings intensified. Massive tremors rocked the Croagh, one following close upon another. Brin was thrown to her knees. Beneath her, the stone began to crack and split. Whole sections of the stairway were breaking off and tumbling downward into the pit. Not yeti she screamed soundlessly. Not until I am free! Whisper’s deep roar lifted above the rumblings, and she struggled after the big cat. Below them, giant trees snapped apart like deadwood. The last of the failing twilight died as the sun slipped beneath the horizon and the whole of the land was wrapped in shadow.
And then the cliff ledge was before her again, and she stumbled onto it, crying out to the shadowy forms that closed about her. Arms reached for her, pulling her clear of the crumbling stairs, drawing her back from the precipice. Kimber was hugging and kissing her, her pixie face beaming with happiness and her eyes filled with tears. Cogline was muttering and grumbling, dabbing at her cheeks with a soiled cloth. And Rone was there, his lean, sun-browned face haggard and bruised, but his gray eyes were fierce with love. Whispering her name, he wrapped his arms about her and held her against him. It was then, finally, that she knew that she was safe.
Only moments later, Jair and Slanter came upon them, descending the Croagh from Heaven’s Well in their desperate search for Brin. There were astonished looks and exclamations of relief. Then Brin and Jair were clasping each other close once more.
“It was you who came to me in the Maelmord,” Brin whispered, stroking her brother’s head. She smiled through her tears. “You saved me, Jair.”
Jair hugged, her back to mask his embarrassment. Rone came over and hugged them both. “For cat’s sake, tiger-you’re supposed to be back in the Vale! Don’t you ever do anything you’re told?”
Slanter hung back tentatively, eyeing them all with studied suspicion, from the three who persisted in hugging and kissing each other to the spindly old man, the woods girl, and the giant moor cat stretched out beside them. “Oddest bunch I’ve ever come across,” he muttered to himself.
Then the rumblings from the floor of the valley rolled through the mountain rock like thunder, and the tremors shattered apart the whole of the Croagh. It tumbled into the pit and was gone. All of the little company that were gathered on the cliff ledge hastened to its edge and peered through the gloom. Shards of brightness from the moon and stars laced the darkness. In a rippling of shadows, the pit of the Maelmord began to sink. Downward it slipped, downward into the earth as if swallowed by quicksand. Soil, rock, and dying forest crumbled and fell away. The shadows lengthened and drew together until the moonlight could no longer show any trace of what had once been.
In moments, the Maelmord had disappeared forever.
Autumn had settled down across the land, and everywhere the colors of the season brightened and shone in the sunshine’s warmth. It was a clear, cool day in the Eastland forests where the Chard Rush tumbled down from out of the Wolfsktaag, and the skies were a depthless blue. There had been a frost that morning, and melted patches of it lingered still in the deep grasses and on the hardened earth and moss-grown rocks that lined the riverbanks, mixed with the spray of the channel’s foaming waters.
Brin paused at the edge of those waters to gather her thoughts.
It had been a week now since the little company of friends had departed the Ravenshorn. With the destruction of the Ildatch and the fading of the dark magic and all the things that it had made, the Gnome Hunters defending Graymark had fled back into the hills and forestlands of the deep Anar-back to the tribes from which they had been taken. Left alone in the crumbling, deserted fortress, Brin, Jair, and their friends had found the bodies of the Borderman Helt, the Dwarf Elb Foraker, and the Elven Prince Edain Elessedil and laid them to rest. Only Garet Jax had been left where he had fallen, for with the destruction of the Croagh, all passage to Heaven’s Well had been cut off. Perhaps it was right that the Weapons Master be left where no other mortal could go, Jair had offered solemnly. Perhaps it should be no different in death for Garet Jax than it had been in life.
They had camped that night in the forests below Graymark, south of where it nestled within the Ravenshorn, and it was there that Brin told the others her promise to Allanon that, when the Ildatch was destroyed and her quest finished, she would come back to him. Now that her long journey into the Maelmord was over, she must seek him out one final time. There were questions yet to be answered and things that she must know.
And so they had all come with her-her brother Jair, Rone, Kimber, Cogline, the moor cat Whisper, and even the Gnome Slanter. They had journeyed with her back down out of the Ravenshorn, skirted the mountains south along the barren stretches of Olden Moor, crossed again over Toffer Ridge into the forests of Darklin Reach and the valley of Hearthstone, then followed the winding channel of the Chard Rush west until they had reached the little glen where Allanon had fought his final battle. It had taken them a week to complete that journey; and on the evening of the seventh day they had camped at the edge of the glen.
Now, in the chill of early morning, she stood quietly, staring out across the river’s flow. Behind her, gathered in the bowl of the little glen, the others waited patiently. They had not come with her to the river’s edge; she had not wanted them to. This was something that she must do alone.
How am I to summon him? she wondered. Am I to sing to him? Am I to use the wishsong’s magic so that he will know that I am here? Or will he come without being called, knowing that I wait...?
As if in answer, the waters of the Chard Rush went still before her, their surface turned as smooth as glass. All about, the forest grew silent, and even the distant drone of the falls faded and was gone. Gently, the waters began to seethe, rippling and frothing like a stirred cauldron, and a single clear, sweet cry lifted into the morning air.
Then Allanon rose out of the Chard Rush, his tall, spare frame erect and robed in black. He came across the still waters of the river, his head lifting within the shadow of the cowl and his dark eyes hard and penetrating. He did not look the way Bremen had appeared; his body seemed solid rather than transparent, free from the mists that had cloaked his father’s shade and free from the death shroud that had wrapped the old man close. It was as if he still lived, Brin thought suddenly, as if he had never died.
He drew close to her and stopped, suspended in the air above the waters of the river.
“Allanon,” she whispered.
“I have waited for you to come, Brin Ohmsford,” he answered her softly.
She looked closer, seeing now the fault glimmer of the river’s waters through the darkness of his robes, shimmering gently, and she knew then that he was truly dead, and that it was only his shade that stood before her.
“It is finished, Allanon,” she told him, finding it suddenly difficult to speak. “The Ildatch is destroyed.”
The cowled head inclined faintly. “Destroyed by the power of the Elven magic, shaped and colored by the wishsong. But destroyed as well, Valegirl, by a power greater still-by love, Brin; by the love that bound your brother to you. He loved you too much to fail, even though he came too late.”
“Yes, by love, too, Allanon.”
“Savior and destroyer.” The black eyes narrowed. “The power of your magic would make you both, and you have seen how corrupting such power can be. So terrible is the lure and so difficult to balance. I gave you warning of that, but such warning as I gave was not enough. I failed you badly.”
She shook her head quickly. “No, it was not you who failed me. It was I who failed myself.”
The Druid’s hand lifted from within the robes, and she found that she could see through it. “I do not have long, so hear me well, Brin Ohmsford. I did not understand all that I should have of the dark magic. I deceived myself-just as the Grimpond told you. I knew that the magic of the wishsong could be as my father had warned-both blessing and curse-and that the holder could therefore become both savior and destroyer. But you possessed reason and heart, and I did not think the danger so great as long as those qualities stood by you. I failed to realize the truth about the Ildatch and that the danger of the dark magic could go beyond those created to wield it. For the true danger was always the book-the subverter of all who had come to use the magic from the time of the Warlock Lord to the time of the Mord Wraiths. All had been slaves to the Ildatch, but the Ildatch was not merely an inanimate gathering of pages and bindings in which the dark magic was recorded. It was alive-an evil that could turn to its uses by the magic’s lure all who sought its power.”
Allanon bent close, sunlight streaking. through the edges of the dark robes as if they had frayed. “It wanted you to come to it from the beginning. But it wanted you tested first. Each time you used the magic of the wishsong, you fell a bit further under the lure of the magic’s power. You realized that there was something wrong in your continued used of the magic, but you were forced to use it anyway. And I was not there to tell you what was happening. By the time that you had gone down into the Maelmord, you were a thing much the same as all who had served the book, and you believed that this was as it should be. This was what the book intended that you should believe. It wanted to have you for its own. Even the power of the Mord Wraiths was insignificant in comparison to yours, for they had not been born with the magic as had you. In you, the Ildatch had found a weapon that carried more power than any that had ever served it-even the Warlock Lord.”
Brin stared at him disbelievingly. “Then it spoke the truth when it said that it had been waiting for me-that there were bonds that joined us.”
“A twisted half-truth,” Allanon cautioned. “You had become close enough in spirit to what it sought that it could make you believe that such was so. It could convince you that you were indeed the dark child of your fears.”
“But the wishsong could have made me so...”
“The wishsong could have made you...anything.”
She hesitated. “And still can?”
“And still can. Always.”
Brin watched the robed figure move closer still to where she stood. For a moment, she thought that he might reach out to draw her to him. But, instead, the lean face lifted and looked beyond her.
“My death was foretold at the Hadeshorn. My passing from this life was assured. But with the destruction of the Ildatch, the dark magic must pass as well. The wheel of time comes around, and the age ends. My father is set free at last, gone to the rest that had been so long denied him, bound no longer to me or to his pledge to the races of the Four Lands.”
The cowled head lowered to her once more. “And now I go, also. No Druids shall come after me. But the trust that was theirs resides now with you.”
“Allanon...” she whispered; shaking her head.
“Hear me, Valegirl. The blood that I placed upon your forehead and the words I spoke at its giving have made it so. You are the bearer of the trust that was mine and my father’s before me. Do not be frightened by what that means. No harm shall befall you because of it. The last of the magic lives now within you and your brother, within the blood of your family. There it shall rest, safe and protected. It shall not be needed again in the age that is to come. The magic will have no useful place within that age. Other learning will be a better and truer guide for the races.
“But, heed. A time will come, far distant and beyond the lives of generations of Ohmsfords yet unborn, when the magic will be needed again. As with all things, time’s wheel will come around once more. Then the trust I have given you will be needed, and the children of the house of Shannara will be called upon to deliver it. For the world that will one day be, do you keep that trust safe.”
“No, Allanon, I do not want this...”
But his hand lifted sharply and silenced her. “It is done, Brin Ohmsford. As my father did with me, I have chosen you-child of my life.”
Voiceless, she stared up at him in despair.
“Do not be afraid,” he whispered.
She nodded helplessly. “I will try.”
He began to draw away from her, his dark form fading slowly as the sunlight brightened through it. “Put the magic from you, Brin. Do not use it again, for there no longer is need. Be at peace.”
“Allanon!” she cried.
He drifted back across the Chard Rush, the waters roiling gently now beneath him. “Remember me,” he said softly.
He sank downward into the river, down through the silver waters, and was gone. The Chard Rush rolled on once more.
On the shore’s edge; Brin stared out across the water. There were tears in her eyes. “I will always remember you,” she whispered.
Then she turned and walked away.
So it was that the magic faded from the Four Lands and the tales of the Druids and Paranor passed into legend. For a time, there would be many who would insist that the Druids had been formed of flesh and blood and had walked the land as mortal men and as the protectors of the races; for a brief time, there would be many who would argue that the magic had been real and that terrible struggles had been waged between good and evil sorceries. But the number of believers would dwindle as the years passed. In the end, nearly all would vanish.
On the same morning that Allanon disappeared from the world of men for the final time, the little company bade farewell to one another. Surrounded by the colors and smells of autumn, they embraced, said good-bye, and departed for their own lands.
“I will miss you, Brin Ohmsford,” Kimber announced solemnly, her pixie face determinedly resolute. “And grandfather will miss you, too, won’t you, grandfather?”
Cogline shuffled his sandaled feet uneasily and nodded without looking at the Valegirl. “Some, I guess,” he admitted grudgingly. “Won’t miss all that crying and agonizing, though. Won’t miss that. Course, we did have some fine adventures, girl-I’ll miss you for that. Spider Gnomes and the black walkers and all. Almost like the old days...”
He trailed off, and Brin smiled. “I’ll miss both of you, too. And Whisper. I owe my life as much to Whisper as to the rest of you. If he hadn’t come down into the Maelmord to find me...”
“He sensed that he was needed,” Kimber declared firmly. “He would not have disregarded your warning if he had not sensed that need. I think there is a special bond between you-a bond beyond that created by your song.”
“Don’t want you coming back again without telling me first, though,” Cogline interrupted suddenly. “Or until I invite you. You don’t come into peoples’ homes without being asked!”
“Grandfather.” Kimber sighed.
“Will you come to see me?” Brin asked her.
The girl smiled and glanced at her grandfather. “Perhaps, some day. For a time, I think I’ll stay with grandfather and Whisper at Hearthstone. I have been away long enough. I miss my home.”
Brin came to her and hugged her close. “I miss mine as well, Kimber. But we’ll meet again some day.”
“You will always be my friend, Brin.” There were tears in her eyes as she buried her face in the Valegirl’s shoulder.
“And you will be mine,” Brin whispered. “Good-bye, Kimber. Thank you.”
Rone added his good-byes to Brin’s, then walked over to stand before Whisper. The big moor cat sat back on his haunches regarding the highlander curiously, saucer blue eyes blinking.
“I was wrong about you, cat,” he offered grudgingly. He hesitated. “That probably doesn’t mean anything to you, but it means something to me. You saved my life, too.” He stood looking at the moor cat for a moment, then glanced ruefully back at the others. “I promised myself I’d say that if he brought Brin safely out of the pit; but I still feel like an idiot standing here talking with him like this, for cat’s...for...”
He trailed off. Whisper yawned sleepily and showed all of his teeth.
A dozen yards away, Jair was feeling something of an idiot himself as he faced Slanter and struggled to find expression for the jumble of emotions rushing through him.
“Look, boy.” The Gnome was gruff and impatient. “Don’t make so much work out of this. Just say it. Good-bye. Just say it.”
But Jair shook his head stubbornly. “I can’t, Slanter. It’s not enough. You and I, we’ve been together one way or another right from the first-right from the time I tricked you with the snakes and locked you in that wood bin.”
“Please don’t remind me!” the Gnome grumbled.
“We’re all that’s left, Slanter,” Jair tried to explain, folding his arms protectively across his chest. “All that way we came, you and I and the others-but they’re gone and we’re all that’s left.” He shook his head. “So much has happened, and I can’t just dismiss it with a simple ‘good-bye.’”
Slanter sighed. “It’s not as if we’ll never see each other again, boy. What’s the matter-you think I’ll end up dead, too? Well, think again! I know how to take care of myself-said so yourself once, remember? Nothing’s going to happen to me. And I’d bet a month of nights in the black pit that nothing will ever happen to you! You’re too confounded sneaky!”
Jair smiled in spite of himself. “I guess that’s quite a compliment, coming from you.” He took a deep breath. “Come back with me, Slanter. Come back to Culhaven and tell them what happened. It should come from you.”
“No, boy.” The Gnome lowered his rough face and shook his head slowly. “I won’t be going back there again. Gnomes won’t be welcome in the Lower Anar for a good many years to come, no matter their reasons. No, I’m for the borderlands again-for now, at least.”
Jair nodded, and there was an awkward silence between them.”Good-bye then, Slanter. Until next time.”
He stepped forward and put his arms about the Gnome. Slanter hesitated, then patted him roughly on the shoulders.
“Now see, boy-that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Nevertheless, it was a long time before he broke away.
It was more than a week later when Brin, Jair, and Rone arrived once more in Shady Vale and turned onto the cobblestone walkway that led to the front door of the Ohmsford home. It was late afternoon, and the sun had already slipped behind the hills, leaving the forest cloaked in shadows and half-light. The sound of voices drifted through the still autumn air from homes scattered about, and leaves rustled through the long grass.
Before them, the windows of the cottage were already lighted against the evening gloom.
“Brin, how are we going to explain all this?” Jair asked for what must have been the hundredth time.
They had passed through the stand of flowering plum, by now almost entirely leafless, when the front door swung open and Eretria came rushing out.
“Wil, they’re home!” she called back over her shoulder and hurried to embrace both of her children and Rone in the bargain.
A moment later Wil Ohmsford appeared as well, bent to kiss both Brin and Jair, and gave Rone a warm handshake.
“You look a bit tired, Brin,” he observed quietly. “Did you and your brother manage to get any sleep while you were in Leah?”
Brin and Jair exchanged a quirk glance, while Rone smiled benignly and began studying the ground. “How was your trip south, father?” Jair changed the subject quickly.
“We were able to help a lot of people, fortunately.” Wil Ohmsford scrutinized his son carefully. “The work kept us away much longer than we had intended or we would have come for you in Leah. As it was, we just returned last night.”
Brin and Jair exchanged another quick glance, and this time their father saw it at once. “Would either of you like to tell me now who that old man was you sent?”
Brin stared. “What old man?”
“The old man with the message, Brin.”
Jair frowned. “What message?”
Eretria stepped forward now, a hint of displeasure in her dark eyes. “An old man came to us in the outlying villages south of Kaypra. He was from Leah. He had a message from you telling us that you had gone to the highlands and that you would be away for several weeks and not to worry. Your father and I thought it strange that so old a man would be serving as messenger for Rone’s father, but...”
“Brin!” Jair whispered, wide-eyed.
“There was something familiar about him,” Wil mused suddenly. “It seemed to me that I ought to have known him.”
“Brin, I didn’t send any...” Jair began, then cut himself short. They were all staring at him. “Wait...just wait right here, just...for a moment,” he sputtered, stumbling over the words as he edged past them. “Be right back!”
He dashed past them into the house, down the hallway, through the front room, and into the kitchen. He went at once to the stone hearth where it joined the shelving nooks and traced his way down to the third shelf. Then he moved the loose stone from its niche and reached inside.
His fingers closed over the Elfstones and their familiar leather pouch.
He stood there for a moment, stunned. Then gripping the Stones in his hand, he walked back through the house to where the others still waited on the cobbled walkway. With a grin, he produced the pouch and its contents and displayed them to an astonished Brin and Rone.
There was a long moment of silence as the five stared at one another, Then Brin took her mother with one arm and her father with the other.
“Mother. Father. I think we had better all go inside and sit down for a while.” She smiled. “Jair and I have something to tell you.”