Reyn hesitated. “Is that how you do it?”

“I don’t have your kind of magic. Only you do. Now do as I say!”

“Then how do you know … ?”

“Just do what I say!” The sorcerer cut him short, impatient and irritated all over again. “All magic works on the same principles. You either layer on its use or you wield it like a hammer. You want the first; the second is what got you into trouble in the first place. Try it. Visualize, then sing to make it real.”

Reyn started and stopped. He tried again, stopped. “I don’t know what I should try to make real?”

Arcannen’s hands tightened on his shoulders. “Picture one of the Fortrens. They caused you enough trouble; think about one of them. Imagine him coming at you, wanting to hurt you. See his face in your mind!”

The boy reacted, barely hesitating this time. His memory of Borry and Yancel Fortren was so strong that their faces came to mind instantly. He didn’t try to choose one, but fixed on images of both—seeing them just as he had that last night he had faced them in Portlow behind the Boar’s Head Tavern. The images formed, and then he began to hum softly to bring them to life. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, but his instincts took command of his voice. Slowly, the images began to gain substance and color and finally a real presence.

And suddenly, just like that, they were there, Borry and Yancel Fortren, standing in front of him, advancing with their familiar looks of cruelty and disdain, weapons held ready for use.

In the next instant the image was gone, shattered as if by a hammer taken to glass. Reyn gasped and staggered back into the immediate support offered by Arcannen’s strong arms. “What happened?” the boy demanded. “I had it and then it went away!”

“You lost control,” the sorcerer answered, straightening him up. “You lost focus. It only takes a second. This is new to you. It won’t happen all at once. You need to spend time working on it. You have to practice using it. I want you to begin this afternoon, right now. Work with Lariana. Remember, she can see what you visualize into being. She can tell you what you are doing. She can suggest things to you. Try as much of this as you can. Work hard at it. It’s important.”

“Won’t you be here to help?” the boy asked at once.

“Later. After you’ve experimented on your own. I have something else I need to do first. We’re in some danger here. I need to change that. I won’t be long.”

Arcannen moved away, heading out into the wilderness surrounding the village ruins, satisfied that the boy and Lariana would do fine without him. He would be more comfortable with her, more willing to try things. She would exert no pressure on him; she would suggest and encourage. He had already spoken to her at length about what would be needed for the boy to be won over. He had explained how the magic worked and what was needed for the boy to develop it sufficiently to help him with his plans.

He walked several hundred yards away from the ruins, looking out over the barren rugged terrain surrounding him, wondering how long he had to prepare. Not long, he thought. Usurient wouldn’t waste time. Whoever he was sending was likely already on their way. He could only hope, against all odds, that the Commander of the Red Slash had decided to come himself, wanting to make sure.

But it didn’t matter. At the end of this business, Arbrox and her people would be avenged, and he would have made it clear to the Federation and the Druids and everyone else that he and those like him were to be left alone. He would make them so afraid of him, so unwilling to come near him, that by the time he had found a way to subvert the Druid Order it would be too late for any of them to do much about it, and he would have gained control of the all the magic that mattered.

He glanced at the ruins. Most especially the magic wielded by that boy.

Turning back to the task at hand, he began the slow, tedious process of laying down the wards that would alert him to the presence of the men who were coming for him.

SEVENTEEN

STANDING AT THE BOW OF THE DRUID CLIPPER, PAXON glanced around doubtfully. Clouds layered the skies north to south, east to west, the whole world blanketed for as far as the eye could see. There was a dreary, sullen cast to the day that presaged rain by nightfall. If there was a sun above those clouds, it was keeping its presence hidden, the absence of any source of light a clear indication that any appearance it made would be momentary. The air was awash in grayness at a thousand feet, and with clouds above and trailers of mist below and the light muted and diffuse, the landscape was leached of color.

It was depressing really, but Paxon tried not to feel that way. Instead, he told himself that today marked the beginning of a journey that would at last lead him to the ever-elusive Arcannen and perhaps to a confrontation that would at last put an end to that chapter of his life.

He almost glanced over his shoulder to where Avelene sat writing in front of the pilot box, but in the end managed to refrain from doing so. It would be nice if he could find in her face what he was feeling, but he knew that was asking too much. Yesterday she had come to him to tell him how much she was looking forward to another trip with him, but within moments her demeanor had changed and she had departed abruptly with no explanation. This morning she had boarded with a closed-off attitude that suggested she was in no mood to discuss much of anything, and he had left it that way. He was himself conflicted about her presence. In spite of Isaturin’s reassurances, he was not persuaded that she was as ready for another encounter with Arcannen as he was. There was a reticence to her, a tightening down, that suggested she was still haunted by memories of how Arcannen had locked her in that black cylinder and left her to die. Her behavior suggested that the trauma she had endured—presumably banished with her release—might return, given provocation. This worried him. He needed her to be strong and steady if they were to deal successfully with Arcannen. The sorcerer would exploit any weakness he found in either of them. Doubts and fears could not be allowed.

He wished she was more willing to talk so he could take her measure and decide how badly damaged she was, but she had shown no interest in conversation. Instead, she had gone straight to the spot she occupied now, opened the packet she was carrying, and begun writing. All around her, preparations for lifting off had been under way, the Druid Guard working the lines and sails, the big Trolls tightening down radian draws and light sheaths, yet she had acted as if none of it had anything to do with her.

She had offered him a perfunctory greeting and then dismissed him with a shifting of her gaze to her work.

It irritated him no end, and suddenly he decided enough was enough. She would speak with him whether she liked it or not.

He walked back to where she was sitting in front of the pilot box and sat down beside her, watching the smooth movement of her quill across the paper mounted on the writing board as the shaved tip dipped into the inkwell, transported its gathered contents to the white parchment, began to form fresh words and symbols, and then repeated the process time and again.

Finally, she looked up. “What is it?”

“Perhaps we should talk.”

She studied him a moment, then set aside her writing materials, capped the inkwell, and looked back at him. “What would you like to talk about, Paxon?”

“About what we are doing. What we are going to do. How we are going to do it. Do you have a plan?”

“Of course I have a plan. I am leader of this expedition, am I not? I am the one who will speak to the Federation Prime Minister. I am the one who will ascertain why it is he asked for us to come—for you to come, in particular.”