She reached inside the girl's clothing, found a place where the flesh was soft and vulnerable, fastened her fingers like a vise, and twisted. The girl screamed with pain, her body jerking in an effort to get free.
Shadea held her fast and twisted harder.
"Are you listening carefully?" she hissed.
The girl nodded, her eyes shut against the pain. "Then be quick to answer when I ask you a question."
She withdrew her hand. "I can cause you a great deal more pain than a few slaps across the face and a little twisting of your tender parts. I can hurt you in places you haven't even begun to think about. I can make you beg for me to kill you. I learned how while I served with the Federation army on the Prekkendorran. I learned that and a good deal more that you don't want to know anything about!"
She paused. "Let's try it again. I ask a question, you give me an answer. Where did Penderrin Ohmsford go?"
The girl exhaled sharply, her head sagging. "Into the Forbidding. After the Ard Rhys."
Shadea glanced disdainfully at Traunt Rowan and Pyson Wence.Hear that? Her eyes challenged them to say otherwise. "How did he get into the Forbidding? No one can go there without magic. Was it the staff he carried out of Stridegate that let him do so?"
The girl nodded again and swallowed thickly.
"How did he find this staff?" She was furious at the idea of it, enraged that such a talisman even existed.
"How did he know what it would do?" She reached down and yanked the girl's chin off her chest, pinching her jaws. "Speak to me, you little fool!"
The dark eyes opened, filled with hate. "The King of the Silver River told him."
Shadea stared at her wordlessly, then let her head drop down again. A Faerie creature was aiding the boy. No wonder he had found a way. She refused to look at her Druid allies, afraid of what she would see in their eyes after hearing that.
She snatched a handful of the girl's close-cropped hair and pulled her head back up again. "Why this boy?" she demanded. "Why him? Why not his father? His father is Bek Ohmsford, brother to Grianne.
He is the one with real magic. What does this boy have that brought the King of the Silver River to him?"
The girl shook her head slowly. "1 don't know. Something different. Something . . ."
"If he succeeds, if he finds Grianne Ohmsford, what happens then? How does he get back?"
"The staff."
"The staff? The staff what? What does it do?" She shook the girl until she could hear her bones crack.
"What does the staff do, little Elven girl? How does it work?"
The girl shuddered. "Brings . . . them back . . . together. To the place . . . they went in." She sagged heavily, and Shadea realized she had fainted. Too much pain, apparently. She wasn't as strong as she had tried to make herself appear. She looked frail, and she was. A poor ally to the boy.
But then they were all poor allies, those who had sought to help him, the living and the dead. He had wasted himself relying on them. Whatever chance he had, it did not lie with the likes of this girl and Tagwen and Kermadec and his Rock Trolls.
She flung the girl to the floor and let her lie. Her mind raced. It didn't matter if the boy had crossed over into the Forbidding. It didn't matter if he had found a temporary ally in a spirit creature. What mattered was that his chances of surviving inside the Forbidding were much less than those of Grianne Ohmsford, and hers were poor. What mattered was that if he somehow gotout of the Forbidding, she must reduce those chances to zero.
She exhaled sharply, her focus on what was needed sharp and clear. She understood the situation perfectly. If Grianne Ohmsford and the boy must return the same way they went in, then they must come back through the very chamber in which she now stood. That gave her a distinct advantage, and she intended to make use of it.
She turned toward her allies. If either had been startled by what they had heard, they had managed to recover their composure.
Pyson Wence wore his sly, cautious look. Traunt Rowan was steady-eyed and stone-faced against whatever she had to offer.
She surprised them. "What's done is done," she said quietly. "It was as much my fault as it was yours. I am the one who leads, I am the one who must bear responsibility for any failure. I should have taken better precautions before going south to Arishaig. I regret that, but there is nothing to be gained by dwelling on it. Let us consider instead what we must do to compensate."
She moved over to the window and beckoned for them to join her. They did so with a certain degree of hesitation. Neither was convinced that she had undergone a real change of heart.
"The boy is inside the Forbidding searching for his aunt. He might find her, if both can manage to stay alive long enough. He might even manage to bring her back again, through the wall of the Forbidding, using whatever magic it is that this staff gives him. I don't think it is likely or even possible, but I don't want to chance being wrong."
She spoke in a whisper, so that they were forced to bend close. She spoke as if she were in fear of being overheard. In truth, she simply wanted them to think she was taking them into her confidence.
Which, in a way, she was. She just wasn't doing so for the reasons they thought.
"We know that the staff's magic will bring them to these chambers. We must be waiting for them if that happens. More to the point, we must find a way to make certain that they will be rendered helpless. Even if we are not here, personally, to intercept them, we must make certain that it doesn't matter, that they are caged and stripped of their power and made prisoners. They must be given no chance to use their magic-especially Grianne Ohmsford. They must be disarmed."
"You make this sound so easy, Shadea," Pyson Wence sneered. "As if disarming a Druid of Grianne Ohmsford's power were easily within our means. But it isn't, is it? Catching her off guard and vulnerable was our best chance. She won't be caught napping a second time. She will come back through that doorway like a whirlwind and we will all be swept away!" Shadea gave him a pitying smile. "Such dramatics, Pyson. You would think she frightened you. Are you frightened of her?"
"We both have a healthy respect for what she will likely do to us if she gets the chance," Traunt Rowan answered for him. "As should you."
She gave him a quick shake of her head. "I don't respect anyone who misuses power as she has. I don't respect anyone with her history. She is an animal, and I will see her caged or put down."
"Brave words, Shadea." He looked less than convinced. "How do you intend to give them weight?"
She shrugged. "We'll create a triagenel," she said.
For the first time that afternoon, she saw agreement reflected in their eyes.
"First," she declared, when they had finished discussing how the triagenel would be achieved, "we have to dispose of the girl. She's told us what we want to know about the boy. She has no further use. Sooner or later, someone will come looking for her, and I don't want them to find her here."
Pyson Wence shrugged. "What do you want done with her?"
"Have your Gnome Hunters take her down to the furnaces and throw her in." She glanced at the girl, who still lay unconscious on the floor. "She won't be much trouble, but bind her anyway. Here, take these and throw them in, as well."
She handed the pouch with the Elfstones to Traunt Rowan. He stared at them in disbelief. "But, Shadea-"
"They're useless to us," she interrupted quickly. "Only Elves can make use of their magic. We're not Elves. If we can't make use of them, let's see to it that no one else can, either. Besides, they are markers.
If anyone finds them on us or at Paranor, they will have found a link to the girl. We don't want that. No, throw them into the furnace and be done with it. Come back here when it is finished, and we will begin building the triagenel."
When they were gone, taking the girl and the Elfstones with them, she slipped from the room and went down through the corridors and stairwells of the Keep to a small guardroom that sat near the back of the north wall. Atriagenel is strong enough to hold even Grianne Ohmsford, she was thinking as she moved along the passageways. Traunt Rowan and Pyson Wence recognized this and so were willing to offer their talents to form it. Three magics from three separate sources, combined in the right way, created a net that would contain and neutralize even the most powerful magic wielder. It took time and effort to build a triagenel, but she had never heard of anyone who was able to overcome one once caught in it. Stringing it about the perimeters of the room would assure them of snaring anyone who entered.
There was no escaping a triagenel, once caught in it. Only its creators could undo it. Grianne Ohmsford and the boy would be snared like rabbits-or more like wolves-but snared nevertheless. By the time the triagenel was released, their lives would be over.
She considered the possibility that the triagenel would disintegrate before they were ready to attempt their return. It enjoyed only a limited lifetime, only a finite period of existence because the magic was sopowerful that eventually it became unstable and collapsed. But another could be built. And another after that, should the need arise. At some point, it would be clear that her victims weren't coming back after all, and the effort to create further triagenels could be abandoned.
She was satisfied that her plan would work. She was confident that she could undo the damage that her inept allies had created.
She reached a heavy wooden door at the end of a darkened passageway set in the recesses of the northeast tower. She rapped sharply on it and heard a murmur of voices and a furtive scuffling from the room beyond. Then the lock released and a bearded face thrust into view. Eyes that were mean and piggish fixed on her, then looked quickly away. The man's head disappeared back inside the chamber.
"Gresheren!" he hissed.
She waited until a second man appeared, this one big and hulking, but with a sharper, more cunning look to him. He bowed to her immediately and stepped outside the room and into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
"Mistress," he greeted. "You have need of me?"
She took him away from the door and into the shadows. "I have a job for you. I want you to select four of your best men to dispose of someone. They will have the advantage of numbers and surprise, but that is likely all. They must strike quickly and surely. There will be no second chance. If they succeed and return alive, I will give them a year's pay for their efforts."
"Fair enough, Mistress," he rumbled. "More than fair. Who is it that you want killed?"
"A traitor, Gresheren," she told him. "A Druid traitor."
Sixteen.
When Traunt Rowan threw her over his shoulder and carried her from the room, Khyber Elessedil was not unconscious. She was pretending to be, as she had pretended to be for most of the time after Shadea had thrown her down. But she was awake.
It was a trick of elemental magic she had learned from Ahren. If she was suffering too much pain, whatever the reason, she could distance herself from her anguish. She could quite literally go outside her body, she could disconnect her emotional self from her physical self. She couldn't do it for long, only a couple of minutes at a time. When the ruse worked, it gave her the appearance of being unconscious or asleep. In the past, the attempt was sometimes unsuccessful because her concentration failed. She had good reason not to let it fail here-the pain Shadea was inflicting on her was excruciating.
Once she appeared unconscious and Shadea lost interest in her, she slipped back inside her pain-racked body, hoping the Druids were preoccupied enough that they would let her be. She listened to what they had to say, though. She listened carefully. Some of it was inaudible to her, the words whispered too softly and from too far away to be heard clearly. But she heard enough to get the gist of what they were deciding, especially when it came to the part about disposing of her. All she could think about after that was,They're going to kill me.
She had to do something to save herself-anything-but she had no idea what that might be. She was without weapons, including the Elfstones, and weak with pain and fear. The ordeal at Shadea's hands, while not breaking her, had left parts of her physically and emotionally drained. She had thought herself tougher than she was, Shadea had been right about that. It was a sobering experience to discover how badly mistaken she had been.
She lay limp over Traunt Rowan's shoulder, her eyes closed, but her mind racing. She heard the tall Druid's breathing as he carried her. She heard the sound of Pyson Wence walking next to them, his gait just different enough from his companion's to be distinctive. There were only the two of them, it was probably the best numerical odds she would get. But she knew that favorable odds alone weren't going to be enough to save her.
At that point, she didn't know what was going to be enough, and she was trying hard not to panic.
She had been confined to a cell in the depths of the Keep since they had broken into the chambers of the Ard Rhys two days earlier and overpowered her. Penderrin was gone into the Forbidding by then, swept away by the magic of the darkwand, and when they discovered she was alone, they tried to make her tell them where he was. She had feigned ignorance, as if his disappearance were as confusing to her as it was to them. She had suggested every false possibility she could think of, and they had seemed all too willing to accept that somewhere in the web of her deceptive explanations they would find the truth.
They had not tortured her or mistreated her in any way to discover if she lied, which had surprised her.
She had come to understand why, they had saved her for Shadea a'Ru. They had saved her for someone who understood how to employ torture in the most effective way. Still racked with pain, still humiliated by her collapse, she knew that she would have told the sorceress anything.
In fact, she had told her more than enough. Shadea was now aware that Pen was inside the Forbidding, searching for the Ard Rhys. She knew that if the boy found his aunt, they would return with the aid of the darkwand to the chambers of the Ard Rhys. Shadea would be waiting for them. The damage to the chamber entry in the battle of two days earlier had been repaired. It would be an easy matter to seal off the room. Once that was done, Shadea could implement a triagenel.
Even an apprentice Druid like Khyber understood what a triagenel was. Every practitioner of magic in the Four Lands aspired to a level of excellence that would allow his or her participation in the creation of such a wonder. Triagenels were the most difficult form of magic to employ because they required the talents of not one, but three practitioners of equally advanced abilities. Druids were the only ones she had ever heard of who even thought about trying to create triagenels. Even then, under current Druid law, it could not be done without the authorization and supervision of the Ard Rhys. Few attempts at a triagenel had been made in her lifetime, and she did not know the details of any of them. Most such attempts were little more than forms of practice to give credence to the belief that a Druid had advanced far enough in his or her studies to combine talents with others with similar aspirations. A successful attempt was proof of mastery of a certain level of magic.
There was little doubt in Khyber's mind that Shadea and the other two were sufficiently talented to create a triagenel that could imprison, if not completely incapacitate, even as gifted a magic wielder as Grianne Ohmsford. A combination of three strong magics was just too much for one, even if the one was immensely powerful. If Grianne and Pen returned through the Forbidding after the triagenel had been set in place, they would be caught in a deadly trap. And she was the only one who could prevent it. Aside from the three who would create the triagenel, she was the only one who knew about it. If she died in the furnace, as they intended, the chances of the Ard Rhys and Pen making a successful return were narrowed to almost nothing.
She had been carried down several levels by them, the Druids taking the back stairs to avoid being seen, keeping to the little-used parts of the Keep. She hung limply over Traunt Rowan's broad shoulder, still pretending at unconsciousness, trying to devise a plan. The idea of challenging two powerful Druids at the same time was not a consideration. She had to wait until they had delivered her to the Gnome Hunters before she could act.
She did not have to wait long. They quickly reached the ground level of the Keep and took her into a room filled with racks of weapons and armor. She risked a quick look around and caught glimpses of heavy wooden benches scarred by blades and fire, boxes of cutting tools, and grinding machines clamped in place. Bits and pieces of metal lay scattered across the worn surfaces of the benches and stone floor, and the air smelled of oil and was thick with dust.
Traunt Rowan slid her off his shoulder and onto the floor and left her in a heap. She lay without moving, eyes closed.
"Wait here," Pyson Wence said to him and went out again.
Khyber waited until she heard the door close, then waited some more in the ensuing silence. She felt Traunt Rowan's eyes on her, as if he was waiting for her to move, to reveal her subterfuge to him. She forced herself to remain exactly as he had left her, limp and un-moving, eyes closed. She let her breathing slow, and she listened for his movements.
When, moments later, she heard him turn away from her, she risked a quick look. He was perusing the room, studying the racks of weapons and armor. She shifted her gaze just enough that she could glimpse the floor about her. She searched for a weapon she could use to protect herself. But there were no weapons to be found, nothing but scraps of metal, leavings from the workbenches. Traunt Rowan moved away a few steps, his hand reaching out to feel the flat of a broadsword. Her eyes skipped across the littered surface of the floor, scanning desperately through the debris. There were blades everywhere, all of them out of reach.
Then she caught sight of something that might prove useful. She eased an outflung arm carefully toward a rough piece of metal, its edge razor-sharp. She pulled the scrap into the palm of her hand and closed her fingers around it carefully.
It was not much of a weapon, but it would have to do.
Traunt Rowan glanced back at her suddenly, but she had her eyes closed again and her body limp. He studied her nevertheless, as if noticing that her position had changed. She held her breath, waiting.
Then the door opened, and Pyson Wence reappeared. Four Gnome Hunters followed him in, then moved over to where she lay, rolled her over, and secured her wrists and ankles with heavy cord. Lying limp and unmoving, she let them do as they wished without signaling that she knew what was happening.
Their strong, wiry hands roamed across her body, turning her this way and that, causing a wave of revulsion to run through her. Her instincts screamed at her to fight back, to break free while she still had the chance, before she was trussed so tightly she could not. But she knew that would be a mistake. She clutched the jagged piece of metal in her hand, her only real chance of surviving this, and forced herself to stay quiet. When they were done binding her, they tied a rag about her mouth, covering it so completely that she was forced to begin breathing through her nose.
The Gnomes stood up, looking back at Pyson Wence. The Druid spoke to them softly, then handed one the pouch that contained the Elfstones. "I don't like giving these up," he said to Traunt Rowan. "It seems such a waste."
"Getting caught with them would be a death sentence," the other replied. "Shadea is right. Better to be rid of them." He paused. "Can we trust these four to do what is needed and keep silent afterward?"
"They understand their orders."
"Then let's be done with it."
Pyson Wence said something further, and one of the four picked Khyber up off the floor, tossed her over his shoulder as if she were no more than a sack of grain, and followed the other three out the door and into the torchlit hallway beyond.
She knew where they were taking her. She knew what they intended to do with her once they got there.
It was all she could do to keep from screaming.
They went deep into the bowels of the Keep, along twisting passageways that grew increasingly narrow and steadily darker, down stairways thick with gloom and heavy with damp. Eventually there were no wall-mounted torches to brighten the way, and the Gnomes were forced to light and carry their own.
Khyber heard the drip of water and could smell the minerals the water contained. The gloom was impenetrable after more than a few feet, even with the torchlight to chase it back. In the silence, the only sounds were the labored breathing of the Gnomes and the measured beat of their footfalls.
If she had been afraid before, she was terrified now.
But she fought down her terror because she knew that if she panicked she was finished. She could open her eyes without fear of being discovered and did so. It was too dark for her captors to see her eyes, and she was hanging head-down anyway, her face obscured by the cloak of the guard who bore her.
She had gained a fresh measure of anonymity. She was little more than a dark lump. She wondered if the men knew who she was, she wondered if they cared. She tried to imagine what it must have taken to imbue them with such blind obedience. Soldiers did what they were told and did not ask questions, she supposed. It was something she understood but would never accept.
She maneuvered the scrap of metal between her fingers until she had a good grip on it and began to saw at her bonds. She did so slowly and carefully, trying her best to disguise her movements by keeping them small and the rest of her body still. It was harder than she had expected because a certain amount of force was required to make any progress with the cutting. She did not know how long she had to free herself. She felt as if she had no time at all. She wanted to hurry her efforts, to work harder, to throw caution to the winds, to just be free. But Ahren had taught her that haste was your worst enemy when you were threatened, that mistakes were too easily made and chances lost. Patience was what would save you. Every fiber in her body shrieked at her to hurry, to cut faster, but she held herself in check. Bepatient.
Trussed and helpless, on her way to her own death, she wanted to be anything but.
Time slipped away, precious and fluid. She could not hold it back. She worked the metal diligently, even though by then her own fingers were cut and bleeding from the effort and the metal shard dangerously slippery. She almost dropped it several times, and she was forced more than once to cease her efforts long enough to wipe clean the shard and her fingers. She smelled her blood, coppery and rank. She could smell her own fear, the sweat of her body. She found that she was crying and hadn't even been aware of it.
She sawed harder, working diligently against the stubborn bonds as her captors trudged on, dark and silent wraiths in the gloom. Burning pitch hissed and spit at the ends of the brands they carried, the flames glinting in the dark like eyes, throwing shadows everywhere. She would be seen, she kept thinking, if she kept this up much longer. She would be caught out.