TWELVE
AT NOON OF THE FOLLOWING DAY, PAXON RODE OUT ALONE TO the old mill, taking his time as he went. The day was gray and cloudy, the smell of rain in the air, the dampness palpable on the chilly wind that blew down out of the north. Paxon was thinking about what waited, his mind on unanswered questions, some of which he would ask, some he might not. The answers he anticipated receiving did not put him in a good mood. His suspicions were aroused, had been so since last night, and his expectation of what he would find out today depressed him. But he was protector for the Druids, and so he would do what he knew he must to put an end to the creature.
He had talked it over with Starks after they had returned from Crombie Joh’s mill yesterday, deeply concerned for the girl Iantha, worried that she was in considerable danger. It seemed obvious to him by now that the miller was the creature they were hunting, and his daughter knew it and was looking for a way to get away from him. Starks wondered why she hadn’t been attacked before now, though he guessed maybe her father could distinguish between her and anyone else when he was the creature. But he agreed after hearing the details of her conversation with Paxon that there was cause for concern for her welfare and that something needed to be done.
“If I can be alone with her for an hour—with no danger of her father interfering—I think I can find out the truth,” Paxon had insisted. “I think Iantha will tell me the truth.”
Starks wasn’t so sure, but he had agreed to let Paxon try. “You’ll have to go alone,” he had said. “She likely won’t talk to you if I’m there. But you be careful, Paxon. We still don’t know what’s happening here. I know you like this girl, but she may be more under her father’s control than you realize. She may even betray you to him.”
But Paxon did not think this was so, believing instead that this was a chance to help someone who desperately needed it. With his sword to protect him, he felt more than capable of carrying out his effort to uncover the truth.
As he neared the mill, he slowed his mount, careful to keep watch and to listen for the miller’s wagon. He believed the man had already gone to make his deliveries, but he couldn’t take anything for granted. If he was seen, he would have to turn back. He couldn’t let Joh discover he had been to visit Iantha secretly. Not without first knowing if his suspicions were correct.
But when he passed by the old mill and approached the cottage, he found Iantha waiting for him, already seated on the steps of the porch. She rushed up to him at once and took his hands in hers. “Tie up your horse in the trees across the way,” she told him, a note of urgency in her voice. “Father is already gone, but if he should come back early, he won’t know you’re here.”
Paxon did as she asked, then walked back over to the porch to sit with her. She went into the house and returned again with glasses of cold ale and a plate of fresh bread. “I’m so glad you came back, Paxon,” she said, sitting close to him. “I feel so much better when you’re here.” She glanced at him shyly. “You must think me very forward.”
“I think you are scared,” he replied, his eyes on her face. “I came back because I wanted to see you, but also because I am worried about you. Do you have something to say about that?”
She seemed almost ready to speak, but then there was a hesitation in her response and a tightening of her shoulders. She shook her head. “Can we talk about something else first? Tell me about Paranor!”
He did, anxious to put her at ease, to give her a chance to collect herself so she could tell him what she knew. It would not be easy, talking about her father, revealing him as the creature that was killing the villagers. In spite of what he was, he expected she loved him and had been protecting him for some time now. She would know something was wrong, living with him as she was, and she would be torn between her love for him and her need to tell someone what he was.
They spoke together quietly for the better part of an hour, Paxon giving descriptions of the Druid’s Keep, providing entertaining stories about various Druids, even giving her a brief explanation detailing his own training for the order. She was fascinated by everything—her eyes wide, her enthusiasm unbounded, and her questions unending. How did this happen? What did you do then? Were you ever frightened by what might become of you? On and on. But he could feel her loosening up, and it would not be long now before she was ready to talk to him about her father.
Still, he was aware of time slipping away; neither of them could be certain how much of it they had left. Patience was one thing, but unreasonable delay was another. Paxon needed to persuade her to talk to him before doing so became too dangerous.
So, finally, he took her hands in his and gently squeezed them. “We have to talk about your father now. I need you to tell me the truth about him. You said you were frightened. What is it that frightens you?”
She dipped her head again, a protective gesture, and for a long time she didn’t speak. She let him hold her hands and once or twice she squeezed them back, but her face remained hidden in the veil of her long brown hair.
“This is very hard,” she said finally.
He nodded, waiting on her. She leaned forward suddenly and kissed him again. In spite of the circumstances, he found himself kissing her back.
“I like you so much,” she said, breaking the kiss. “You are kind and patient with me. I’m going to hate it when you are gone. I will miss you.”
“Just tell me,” he encouraged her.
She shook her head. There were tears in her eyes. “I don’t know how!”
“Does your father have something to do with all the killings that have happened in Eusta?” he tried, thinking a nudge might help.
She clenched her fists. “We shouldn’t talk about this, Paxon. You should forget I said anything. In fact, you should leave now. My father will be back soon, and I don’t want him to find you here. I’m sorry.”
Paxon hesitated only a moment, and then he took hold of her by her upper arms and held her firmly in front of him. “You brought me out here to tell me something. I came because I believed you. This isn’t going to go away, and neither am I. The killings have to stop, and if your father has something to do with them, Starks and I are going to find out.”
Her eyes were suddenly wild. “You don’t know what you are talking about! You don’t know what you are saying!”
He nodded, holding her gaze. “Then tell me. Tell me why your father isn’t involved. Tell me where I am wrong. But I’m not leaving until you tell me something!”
She sagged in his grip, her head drooping. “I didn’t want this to happen!” she wailed. “I only wanted you to like me. To be a friend! To talk to me! I just said whatever came into my head so you would come back. Can’t you leave it at that? Can’t you?”
“No, I don’t think he can,” a voice said from behind Paxon. He turned to look, and there was Crombie Joh, standing in the shadows less than ten feet away, hands on hips, face grim. “I told you that, Iantha. I told you he would keep after you until he found out everything.”
“Everything?” Paxon echoed, taking his hands off Iantha and bracing himself as he faced her father.
The big man shrugged. A light rain had begun to fall, and his features were indistinct in the mix of gray light and shadows. He had the look of something more wraith than human. Yet his voice was the same, and his build hadn’t changed.
“I knew you would come out here as soon as she told you I was leaving to make deliveries. Why did you do that? She likes you; she doesn’t want to see you get hurt. And now you almost certainly will.” An audible sigh escaped his lips. “Where is your companion?”
“On his way to join me,” Paxon said quickly.
Joh frowned. “Oh, I doubt that. He would be with you now, if he was coming. He wouldn’t be hanging back, biding his time. He let you come because you both thought Iantha would tell you what you wanted to hear about me. That I was the killer. That I was the changeling. That she had been covering up for me all along. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what you were expecting her to tell you?”
“I thought she might want to help you.”
Crombie Joh’s laugh was mirthless. “That’s very funny, Highlander. Very amusing.”
Paxon got to his feet and drew out the Sword of Leah. He came down off the porch steps and advanced on the miller. “Why do you find it so funny? You don’t believe she might want to help you?”
“Why, no, not at all. Exactly the opposite, in fact. I believe she wants to help me very much.”
He was changing now, right in front of Paxon, his human form fading, something predatory and dangerous taking his place. The big body lengthened and stretched, the clothes shredding as bones and cartilage and muscles found new shapes and took on strange definitions. A wolf’s head replaced Joh’s own, jaws lengthening into a maw that was filled with gleaming teeth. Hands and feet became paws with great hooked claws. Dark, bristling tufts of hair sprouted all across the exposed parts of the strong body, up arms and down legs, covering head and shoulders until what Paxon beheld was all animal and nothing human.
Then, some inexplicable instinct—the Highlander never knew exactly where it came from or what triggered it—warned him to turn. It was so strong he flinched from its impact as he spun around, his sword held protectively in front of him.
Iantha was gone. In her place was another of the creatures.
“Shades!” Paxon whispered, not quite believing what he was seeing, not ready to accept what it meant.
There were two of them.
Both father and daughter were changelings.
This realization took place in a split second, and then Iantha was on him. There was no hesitation, no suggestion of any regret. She was no longer human; she was a predatory creature consumed by a blood-lust that swept away any other consideration. She meant to kill him on the spot, and she would have done so if his sword had not saved him. But the magic responded instantly to the threat, throwing up a burst of power that blocked the claws and teeth that slashed and bit at Paxon and would have crippled him. The force of the attack was blunted, but it threw the Highlander backward to the ground while at the same time causing Iantha to howl in rage and go tumbling away.
Paxon was aware of only bits and pieces of what followed next. As he struggled to rise, he caught a glimpse of Crombie Joh coming for him from the other direction, a bigger, stronger threat bearing down with growls and snarls, jaws split wide. Then a second explosion erupted, intercepting him, this one all white fire and blinding light that seemed to come out of nowhere. For an instant the gray light and heavy shadows vanished, the rain evaporated, and the world disappeared.
And there was Starks, emerging from the brightness even as it faded back into the day’s gloom and damp, striding toward him, arms extended, smoke tendrils curling from his fingertips. The miller rose, shifted his attack to the Druid, and barreled toward his intended victim with terrible intent and unstoppable fury.
Paxon tried to find his way back to his feet, but his entire body felt as if a great weight had rendered it useless. His limbs had become soft clay, and his thoughts were scrambled and scattered. He was surprised to find blood all over the front of his tunic and down one arm, and he was suddenly aware of pain washing through him. In spite of his sword’s magic and all his training from Oost, Iantha’s attack had broken through his defenses.
Shaken by the realization and momentarily rendered too weak to arise, he watched helplessly as Crombie Joh launched himself at Starks, a huge and implacable threat. But Starks was equal to it, side-stepping the creature with practiced ease and sending a second explosion of fire into the side of its head. The miller screamed as the blow threw him off balance and sent him sprawling in the damp earth. His massive form crumbled, shaking all over, bristling hair singed and smoking. Starks followed him down, another blast of Druid Fire hitting the other’s wolfish head. And then another.
All at once Crombie Joh was on fire, the flames consuming his now writhing body, fur and flesh alike blackened and smoking. The miller screamed and tried to rise. But his great strength was no match for the damage that had been done to him, and finally he fell back and lay still.
Starks wheeled on Paxon, gesturing. “Go after her!”
Paxon scrambled up, catching a glimpse of Iantha fleeing into the trees, her lupine form bounding through the shadows. He broke into a run, recovered enough now to give pursuit, his sword gripped tightly in his hand. A part of him was reluctant to hunt her like this, but he knew he had to. Even racing after her through the woods, through the layered shadows and clouded gloom, he recalled the young girl eager for his company. A lie, he told himself. But maybe not entirely.
He had planned it all with Starks ahead of time. The miller was the creature. They were convinced of it. The daughter was his accomplice, willing or no. She had told Paxon to come to her when her father was away, but Starks didn’t think events would necessarily turn out as she had promised. So while Paxon would be allowed to go alone, Starks would follow and be there just in case the Highlander was being lured into a trap.
Which, in fact, was what had happened. What they hadn’t counted on, what they hadn’t considered, was that Iantha was another of the creatures, and that father and daughter had been killing the townspeople of Eusta together. Paxon could still hardly believe it. The shock of finding her changed and trying to rip him apart remained a sharp-edged memory in his head, tearing at him.
So now she must be stopped. She must be killed.
I do not want to do this.
I do not want to hurt her.
Conflicting thoughts warred within him. The race to catch her had taken him deep into the woods by now. Starks and the old mill were well behind him and out of sight. He was on his own. Be careful, he warned himself. Remember what she is. Remember what she tried to do. He could no longer see her up ahead, although he could hear her crashing through the brush and see the damage her passing had done.
And see the blood spots, too. She was injured.
Suddenly he was aware that he could no longer hear her. The world around him had gone silent save for the patter of the rain against the leaves and the sound of his breathing. He slowed and then stopped, listening. She was waiting for him. Perhaps in ambush, intending to catch him off guard, coming in reckless pursuit, giving her a chance to finish what she had started.
He moved ahead cautiously, searching the shadows, paying attention to every sound. Nothing. The trail of crushed grasses and blood spatters continued, so he knew he was going in the right direction. The trail had moved away from the deep woods and was now heading for the river. The trees were opening ahead of him to reveal the silver-tipped waters, and the danger of an ambush was fading. He picked up his pace. He could sense that she was near.
He found her at the river’s edge, collapsed in a heap. She had reverted to human form, her clothes in tatters and blood everywhere. His sword had done more damage than he realized when it had deflected her attack. She was watching him come toward her, but making no move to do anything about it. Her hands were empty; she had no weapons.
He knelt beside her, and she gave him a weak smile. “I’m sorry, Paxon. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You should have told me,” he said. “Maybe I could have helped you.”
She shook her head. “There is no help for things like me. Father has been searching for a cure for years. Neither of us wanted this life. This curse. We change without warning. We do it together and separately both. We can’t stop it.”
She was dying, he realized. He fought down a sudden wave of anguish. “I know this. I know you wouldn’t hurt me if you could help it.”
Her voice was surprisingly strong. “It was the gemstone. Father found it two years ago buried beneath the house—beautiful and mysterious and glowing, like nothing he had imagined possible. He believed it to be a treasure of great worth. He thought we could sell it and become rich. He brought it inside the house and showed it to me. While he stood there, holding it in his hands, he was compelled to kiss it. It poisoned him. He didn’t know it at the time, but he found out soon enough. The urge to kill consumed him after that. He tried to fight it, but it was too strong. He needed the relief the killing gave him. In those early days, he made his kills far away from Eusta, traveling to other villages. But after a while he couldn’t manage to wait until he was far away and began killing our neighbors.”
She coughed, and there was blood on her lips. “For a long time, I knew nothing of what had happened to him. The killings were still taking place far away, and he never spoke of them. And the change never came to me, even though I had kissed the gemstone, too. My father thought I might not have the curse. But eight months ago, it showed itself. I changed for the first time. It happened while Father was away, and the urge to kill overcame me and I acted on it. I didn’t know what to do; I was terrified. When finally I admitted it to my father, he told me the truth. He and I were the same.”
She was crying softly. “He tried to protect me. But he couldn’t even protect himself. We were the same, and we killed together, father and daughter. We shared in the bloodlettings. Neither of us could stop; neither of us could help the other.”
She closed her eyes. “It hurts,” she whispered, and he knew she was speaking of the pain her memories caused her.
He took her hands in his and held them. It was raining again, the droplets running down her anguished face. “Just rest a moment.”
“Father is dead, isn’t he?”
“I think he is.”
“This will end it, then. Once I’m gone.” Her eyes opened. “Find the gemstone, Paxon. Don’t touch it. Just take it and destroy it. Promise me.”
He nodded. “I will.”
Her blood was soaking into the ground all around her, and her skin was growing whiter. “I could have loved you. I did love you. You were so nice. I just wanted you to be my friend. I didn’t want to hurt you, even when I knew I would. I tried not to, Paxon.”
Her eyes fixed in an unseeing stare, and she quit breathing.
“I know you did,” he whispered, and released her hands.
He carried her body back to the mill and found Starks just getting ready to come after him. Together, they buried father and daughter in the deep woods, and then they began searching the cottage for the gemstone Iantha had warned about. It took them a long time to find it. Joh had hidden it well, perhaps because he was afraid of its power and wanted to protect against anyone else stumbling on it. They had to conduct their search cautiously because they didn’t want to touch it accidentally in the process of finding it. They located it finally at the back of a cabinet in the miller’s bedroom beneath a false drawer bottom. It was a wicked-looking thing, an irregularly shaped black orb with dozens of facets, their mirrored surfaces flecked with gold shards that glimmered and sparked like bits of dancing fire.
“A passive magic,” Starks said, studying it carefully without touching it, using Druid magic to probe and reveal. “That’s why it didn’t register on the scrye. It only comes awake when the stone is touched. Otherwise, it lies dormant.”
“Where did it come from?” Paxon said. “Who would have made such a thing? Or is it just an aberrant magic?”
Starks shook his head. “I doubt that we will ever know. What matters is what we do with it now.”
He pulled the cabinet drawer all the way out and dumped the gemstone onto the cottage floor. He used the toe of his boot to roll it into a leather pouch, which he then stuffed into a worn feed bag he found in the mill. He rolled up the feed bag and its deadly contents into a tight ball and bound it with twine.
“That should keep it safe until we get it back to Paranor.”
“What do we tell the townspeople?” Paxon asked.
Starks shook his head. “Not the truth. They wouldn’t accept it. They wouldn’t want to live with it. They would spend the rest of their lives wondering who else might be infected.”
Paxon understood. “Well, we’ll have to think of something to tell them that explains both the creature and the disappearance of Iantha and her father.”
They talked about it at length as they rode back to the village. Finally, Starks said they would offer a version of the truth. They would say they found out the miller and his daughter were the creature’s next victims and tried to save them, but failed. Both died, but the creature was distracted long enough for the Druids to kill it. The creature was a changeling that assumed the shape of a wolf, as the witnesses had described. But it was dead now, and there was no further danger to anyone.
So they rode back into Eusta and returned the horses to Joffre Struen, giving him the details of the agreed-upon explanation and leaving it to him to tell the rest of the townspeople. Starks made it a point to remind him they were always available to come help should the need arise, and to tell the others not to be afraid or suspicious of the Druids. They were friends, and they would help if they could.
“About two out of five will believe that,” Starks commented as they walked back to the spot where they had left the airship. “But that number’s up from what it was before, and at the end of the day the problem is the same. We have to win the doubters, the disbelievers, and the antagonistic over one at a time.”
They found the airship with no problem and boarded for home. Starks went back to his station in front of the pilot box and to his reading. After moving aimlessly about the decking for a time, Paxon settled down by the bowsprit to mull over what had happened. He kept thinking he should have realized the truth sooner; he could not shake the feeling he must have missed something he should have seen. Mostly, he thought of Iantha’s young face and her eagerness to be liked—nothing you wouldn’t find in any ordinary young girl. She hadn’t been much older than Chrysallin, and it haunted him that a young girl’s life could be cut short so easily and without any fault on her part. He realized anew how lucky he was to have gotten his sister free of Arcannen before something evil had happened to her.
He wished he could have done the same for Iantha.
He found himself wondering what the Ard Rhys would do with the deadly stone that had cost the girl and her father their lives. He hoped she would smash it into a thousand fragments and throw them into the sea.
Below him, the countryside passed away in a rolling carpet of plains and forests and fields with rivers angling through it all. The rain, which had started much earlier and continued to fall throughout the day, abated finally, but the gloom and a misty haze remained. Long before it became dark, they were enveloped in low-slung banks of clouds. Far away, distant from where they flew, lights began to appear in the towns and villages, fireflies against the closing darkness.
They spent that night in the Tirfing aboard ship. Paxon was unable to sleep, and he took the watch, sitting forward by the bowsprit once more, looking out over a countryside moonlit and calm beneath a clear sky, still troubled.
He was there only a short time when Starks came over to join him.
“Not happy with things, are you?” the Druid asked.
Paxon shook his head. “I should feel better about this than I do.”
“You were sent to protect me, and you did. You were sent to help me find and destroy the creature that was killing the people of Eusta, and you did. You were sent to bring back whatever magic was at work, and you have.” Starks nodded to himself. “That’s as much as you can expect, Paxon. You might wish it made you feel better, but that isn’t always how it is afterward. You have to accept that.”
“I know. But I can’t forget how she looked when she was dying. She was a victim of what that gemstone had done to her. She wasn’t a bad person. She was a victim. She shouldn’t have had that happen to her.”
“No one should. But life isn’t fair, and the right thing doesn’t always happen. You know that.”
Paxon didn’t respond. He did know. But he didn’t like it, and he wasn’t happy about how it left him hollowed out and dissatisfied.
“It just doesn’t feel like we did as much as we could.”
Starks gave him a nod. “This is how it is. Sometimes, it isn’t so satisfying. Sometimes, people die. We do what we can, Paxon. You have to be at peace with that. If you think you need more, you shouldn’t be doing this.” He paused. “Maybe you should give that some thought.”
He rose. “But I think you are doing exactly what you should be doing. You did well back there. You showed courage and intelligence. You have my approval even if you don’t have your own. I’m going to bed. You should do the same.”
He disappeared below, leaving Paxon to consider how much of what he had just heard he believed.
They reached Paranor by midafternoon of the following day. Starks told Paxon to go clean up while he gave his report and the sack containing the dangerous gemstone to the Ard Rhys. She would want to see him later, but he might as well look and smell a little better before that happened.
So Paxon washed and dressed in fresh clothes, then walked down to the dining hall to find something to eat. He was midway through an especially wonderful potato leek soup when Starks reappeared.
“She would like to see you right away,” he said. He did not look happy.
Paxon didn’t miss it. “What’s wrong?”
“It would be better if she explained. Go to her working chambers. She’s waiting for you there.”
Paxon left the table and his half-eaten meal and went down the hallways and up the stairs of the Keep until he reached the door that opened to her chambers. He paused, a premonition already telling him that this was bad.
When he knocked, she called out at once. “Come in, Paxon.”
He did, and found her at her desk, immersed once more in paperwork. The trussed-up feed bag containing the gemstone sat to one side. His eyes went to it immediately, and she gave him a tired smile. “You want to know what I will do with it?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“It will be sealed away in a special compartment in the catacombs beneath the Keep. We have others of this sort down there, as well.” She paused. “We would destroy it, if we could, but such magic released from the confines of the stone would spread to other places and take other forms. We could end up with more than one dark magic, and it might even prove more dangerous than it is now.”
“So you can’t destroy it?”
She shook her head no. “Only contain it. But that’s usually enough. Sit down.”
He sat, waiting for her to say something more.
“As you know, we sent someone to keep watch over your sister and mother, just in case Arcannen returned. Sebec made the arrangements himself. He sent one of our own, a young Druid with only a year’s experience in using magic, but life skills that made him a good choice. He was to shadow your sister and mother, and he was to make sure nothing happened to them.”
She paused. “Yesterday, he was found dead on the streets of the city. It was made to appear as if he was the victim of a theft, but those who found him and reported back to us say it was something more. Whatever else it was, it wasn’t a robbery. There were signs of magic in play. He was deliberately killed.”
“My sister?” he asked quickly.
She gave him a steady look. “She’s disappeared.”