Терри Брукс - Jarka Ruus

• Название: Jarka Ruus
• Автор: Терри Брукс
• Жанр: Фэнтези

High Druid of Shannara. More than a quarter of a century after The Sword of Shannara carved out its place in the pantheon of great epic fantasy, the magic of Terry Brooks's New York Times bestselling saga burns as brightly as ever. Three complete series have chronicled the ever–unfolding history of Shannara. But more stories are still to be told–and new adventures have yet to be undertaken. Book One of High Druid of Shannara invites both the faithful longtime reader and the curious newcomer to take the first step on the next extraordinary quest. Twenty years have passed since Grianne Ohmsford denounced her former life as the dreaded Ilse Witch–saved by the love of her brother, the magic of the Sword of Shannara, and the destruction of her evil mentor, the Morgawr. Now, fulfilling the destiny predicted for her, she has established the Third Druid Council, and dedicated herself to its goals of peace, harmony among the races, and defense of the Four Lands. But the political intrigue, secret treachery, and sinister deeds that have haunted Druid history for generations continue to thrive.

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He forced himself to his feet. «Tagwen," he called over to the Dwarf, finding him through eyes half–blinded by smoke and ash. Tagwen looked up at him from where he was huddled in a muddied depression, his eyes wide and scared. «Get up. We have to help them.»

The boy staggered across the flats, head lowered against the heat of the still–fiery bay. Flames and ash–smeared waters were all that remained of Galaphile. Pen glanced at the charred mix, baffled and awed by what had taken place, trying unsuccessfully to make sense of it.

He reached Khyber and knelt beside her. He touched her shoulder. «Khyber," he said softly.

She did not look up or stop shaking, so he put his lips to her ear, whispering, «Khyber, it's all right, it's over. Look at me. I need to know you can hear me. You're all right.»

«So much power," she whispered suddenly. She stopped shaking then, her body going perfectly still. A long sigh escaped her lips. She lifted her head and looked out across the fiery surface of the wetlands. «I couldn't stop it, Pen. Once it started, I couldn't stop it.»

«I know," he said, understanding now something of what had transpired. «It's all over.»

He helped her to her feet, and they stumbled together to where Tagwen knelt beside Ahren Elessedil. Pen knew at a glance that the Druid was dying. A handful of arrows and darts had pierced him, and his body was blackened and smoking from the explosion. But his eyes were open and calm, and he watched their approach with a steady gaze.

Khyber gasped as she saw him, then dropped to her knees and began to cry, her hands clasped helplessly in her lap, her head shaking slowly from side to side.

The Druid reached out with one charred hand and touched her wrist. «Terek Molt tied his magic to the Galaphile," he whispered, his voice dry and cracked with pain. «To protect her. When I attacked, he strengthened the connection until he was too committed to withdraw it. The Elfstones couldn't tell the difference. To them, the Galaphile was a weapon, an extension of Molt. So it consumed them both.»

«I could have helped you!»

«No, Khyber.» He coughed and blood flecked his burned lips. «He couldn't be allowed to know that you had the Elfstones. Otherwise, he would have destroyed you.»

«Instead, he destroyed you!» She was crying so hard that she could barely make herself understood.

The ruined face tilted slightly in response. «I misjudged the extent of my invulnerability. Still, it is a reasonable trade.» He swallowed thickly. «The Elfstones are yours now. Use them with caution. Your command of their power …» He trailed off, the words catching in this throat. «You've seen the nature of your abilities. Strong. Your heart, mind, body—very powerful. But the Stones are more powerful still. Be wary. They will rule you if you are not careful. There is danger in using them. Remember.»

She lifted her tear–streaked face and looked over at Pen. «We have to help him!»

She was almost hysterical. Pen was frightened, unable to think of what to say to her. There was nothing they could do. Surely she could see that. But she looked so wild that he was afraid she might try something anyway, something dangerous.

Ahren Elessedil's hand tightened on her wrist. «No, Khyber," he said. He waited until she looked back at him, until she met his terrible burned gaze. «There is nothing to be done. It is finished for me. I'm sorry.»

His eyes shifted slowly to Pen. «Penderrin. Twenty years ago, when I sailed on the Jerle Shannara with your father, a young girl gave up her life for me. She did so because she believed I was meant to do something important. I would like to think this is part of what she saved me for. Make something good come out of this. Do what you were sent here to do. Find the Ard Rhys and bring her back.»

He took several sharp, rattling breaths, his eyes holding the boy's as he struggled to speak. «Ahren?» Pen whispered.

«Promise me.»

The Druid's eyes became fixed and staring, and he quit breathing. Pen could not look away, finding in that terrible gaze strength of purpose he would not have believed possible. He reached out and touched the Druid's charred face, then closed those dead eyes and sat back again. He looked over at Khyber, who was crying silently into her hands, then at Tagwen.

«I never thought anything like this would happen," the Dwarf said quietly. «I thought he would be the one to get us safely through.»

Pen nodded, looking out over the burning lake at the flames licking at the twilight darkness, staining sky and earth the color of blood. The surface of the water burned silently, steadily, a fiery mirror reflected against a backdrop of shadow–striped trees. Smoke mingled with mist and mist with clouds, and everything was hazy and surreal. The world had an alien feel to it, as if nothing the boy was seeing was familiar.

«What are we going to do?» Tagwen asked softly. He shook his head slowly, as if there were no answer to his question.

Penderrin Ohmsford looked over again at Khyber. She was no longer crying. Her head was lifted and her dark features were a mask of resolve. He could tell from the way she was looking back at him that there would be no more tears.

The boy turned to the Dwarf. «We're going to do what he asked of us," he said. «We're going to go on.»

TWENTY–SEVEN

Shadea a'Ru stalked from the Druid Council without sparing even a glance back at those fools who expected it, her eyes directed straight ahead. She would not give them the satisfaction. She would give them nothing. She was seething with rage and frustration, but she would not let even a hint of it escape. Let them suspect what they wished about her true feelings; their suspicions were the least of her problems.

Her stride lengthening, she shouldered past the few grouped by the doors leading out, using her size and weight to brush them aside, and turned down the hallway toward the stairs leading up to her rooms. It was a kindness she bestowed on them, leaving so abruptly. Had she hesitated longer, she might have killed one of them.

Surely that would have been more satisfying than anything else that had happened.

She had spent the entire afternoon trying to convince the Council of the necessity of taking a stand on the war between the Federation and the Free–born. She had insisted that no progress in the efforts of the Druid order could be made until the war was concluded. It was inevitable, she argued, that the Federation, superior in men and materials, would emerge as the eventual victor. Better that it happen now, so that the rebuilding could begin, so that the work of the Druids could commence in earnest. Callahorn was Southland territory in any event, inhabited mostly by members of the Race of Man and naturally aligned with the interests of the Federation. Let them have it. Make that the condition to ending the war. The Free–born were a rebel outfit at best, consumed by their foolish insistence on keeping Callahorn for themselves. Remove the tacit support of the Druids and the rebels would collapse.

She did not tell the Council, of course, that she had made a bargain with Sen Dunsidan to help him secure control over the Borderlands. She did not tell them that Federation control of the Callahorn was the price of his support of her and her efforts to expand the authority and influence of the order. That wasn't something they needed to know. It was enough that she was proposing a reasonable, commonsense solution to a problem that had plagued the order since the day of its inception.

But the Council had balked at adopting her proposal, its members led in their opposition by that snake Gerant Cera, who had insisted that a thorough study of the consequences of such drastic action was needed first. The matter was not as simple as the Ard Rhys was trying to make it seem, his argument went. Elven interests would be impacted by the outcome of the Federation–Free–born war in a significant way, as well. Once he had mentioned the Elves, it was only moments before the Dwarves were insisting that their interests were important too. Soon, everyone was arguing. Clever of him. Without repudiating the suggestion outright, he had managed to defer any action on it until a later date, all with an eye toward his own special interests, she was certain.

Very well. He had won this day, but there would be another—although not necessarily for him. He was becoming something of a nuisance, one that she would have to deal with soon. If he could not be brought into line, he would have to be removed.

For the moment, she had more pressing concerns. Sen Dunsidan would arrive in three days, and he would expect to hear that she had secured the Council's approval for Federation occupation of Callahorn along with its open repudiation of Free–born claims to the land. He would be expecting a joint announcement of solidarity on the matter, one that would clearly indicate to the Free–born that their cause was lost. His expectations would not be met. She would have to tell him that the matter was not settled, that he would have to be patient. He would not like that, but he would have to live with it. He was used to disappointment, he would survive.

She began to climb the stairs to the tower, conscious of the darkness pressing in from without, filtering through the windows to cast its shadows in the flickering torchlight. Nighttime already, and she had not even eaten yet.

She was halfway up when Traunt Rowan appeared at the top of the stairs on his way down. She could tell at once that something was wrong.

«You had better come, Shadea," he told her quietly, waiting until she had reached him, then turning back the way he had come. «The cold chamber.»

She fell in beside him, angry without yet knowing why. «Has Molt failed yet again?»

«Someone has. The scrye waters indicate a massive collision of magics somewhere east of Anatcherae. The Galaphile is gone.»

«Gone?» She stared at him. «Gone where?»

«Destroyed. Obliterated.»

Her fists clenched in fury. «How could Molt allow such a thing to happen?» Her mind spun with possibilities. «When was our last report from him?»

«Yesterday.» Rowan wouldn't look at her. «The message indicated he was in pursuit of the boy and the others and had caught up with them in Anatcherae. That would have been two days ago.»

She forced herself to stay calm, to think it through. Courier birds released from the Galaphile brought her regular messages from Molt, indicating where he was and what he was doing. Nothing in yesterday's message suggested the Dwarf was in any trouble, let alone the sort that would cause a Druid warship to be destroyed. Magic of such power was unusual, and it would have to have been employed in just the right way. The Elfstones? Perhaps. But Ahren Elessedil was not a warrior Druid or trained in battle the way Molt was. It was inconceivable that he would have prevailed in a confrontation.

They entered the cold chamber to find Iridia Eleri standing at the basin, staring down at the scrye waters with haunted eyes, arms folded across her rigid body. Her eyes snapped up at their entry, and the haunted look gave way to one of rage.

«If you had sent me, this wouldn't have happened!» she hissed at Shadea, making no effort to hide her feelings.

Shadea ignored her, walking over to the basin and looking down. Heavy ripples emanated from a point at the eastern shore of the Lazareen, perhaps somewhere within the Slags. She knew that country. Dangerous to anyone, no matter how well armed or prepared. There was no mistaking what she was reading in the waters. The nature of the ripples clearly indicated a massive explosion, one instigated by a use of magic. The little blip that had served as a beacon for the Galaphile was gone. Traunt Rowan was not mistaken in what he had told her.

«There's no way of knowing who survived this," she said, mostly to herself.

«Not without sending someone to find out," Traunt Rowan said.

Iridia spun around the end of the basin and came face–to–face with Shadea. Although smaller of frame and stature, Iridia looked as if she intended to attack the bigger woman. Shadea took a step back in spite of herself.

«This is on your head," Iridia snapped, her words as sharpedged as daggers, her voice freezing the air. She was shaking with rage. «You are responsible for this travesty, you and your insistence on doing whatever you choose to do. What do you need with the rest of us, Shadea? What have you ever needed with us? I thought you my friend, once. I thought we were sisters. But you are incapable of friendship or loyalty or caring of any sort. You are as much a monster as that creature you summoned to bear the Stiehl. And I am no better. I have been one of your monsters, one of those who act in your behalf. I have been your tool.»

She shook her head slowly. «No more. Not ever again.»

She held the other's gaze for a moment longer, then turned and walked from the room. Unimpressed, Shadea watched her go. She thought it unfortunate that Iridia could no longer sort things out in a reasonable manner. Her attachment to Ahren Elessedil had left her emotionally unstable, and Shadea found herself hoping that the Elven Prince had gone the way of the Galaphile. Then, perhaps, Iridia would come back to herself.

Shadea looked over at Traunt Rowan. «Are you of a like mind?»

The Druid shrugged. «I am no one's tool, and I do what I choose. Iridia's problems are her own. On the other hand, I question the wisdom of your decision to send Terek Molt after that boy. I don't see the benefit to it. It distracts us from what matters.»

«What matters is making certain no one finds a way to bring the Ard Rhys back!» she snapped at him. «Why can't you see that? All of you are so certain it can't be done. But remember who she is. Others thought her dead and gone, as well, and lived to regret it.»

«No one can go into the Forbidding—"

«Hssst! Don't even speak the word!» She leaned close. «It is bad enough that Ahren Elessedil and the boy know what has happened, and it would be a mistake for us to think that they do not. They will seek a way to reach her. Successful or not, they will not forgive us for what we have done. This matter will not resolve itself while they live. If you think otherwise, say so now!»

He stared at her in silence, then shook his head. «I think as you do.»

Shadea wasn't sure she believed him, but it was enough of an affirmation for now. She looked back at the scrye waters. Another message would arrive by tomorrow if Terek Molt was still alive. If not, then she could only hope that he had taken the boy, the Elven Prince, and that sycophant

Tagwen with him to the grave. Then she could stop thinking about all of them and concentrate on what was happening at Paranor.

It occurred to her suddenly that she had forgotten about Aphasia Wye, dispatched with the Stiehl, as Iridia had reminded her, to eliminate the boy and his protectors. What of him? Even if the Galaphile was destroyed, even if Terek Molt was dead, perhaps the assassin was still carrying through on his task. Nothing would stop him once he set his mind to it. The only character flaw she had ever discovered was his troublesome streak of independence. On a whim, he might abandon the whole project.

She stared down again at the scrye waters, studying the diminishing series of ripples that marked the passing of the Galaphile.