But the Black Elfstone remained dark. Drisker closed his fist on the talisman and stared helplessly at the closed gates and the gray haze that cloaked everything surrounding him.
“It might be that something more is needed,” Cogline offered unhelpfully.
“Which I must discover for myself?”
“Well, you should at least think about what it might be.”
“Suppose I simply don’t qualify as a wielder of this particular magic? I’ve considered that possibility.”
“As you should.” Cogline gave him an appreciative nod. “However, I don’t think that is your problem. You are a former Ard Rhys. You don’t always shed that mantle simply because you cease to function in the job. I should know. I was once a Druid myself, if you recall my history. The Keep responds to truth and belief and commitment, not to a title. Are you Ard Rhys of the Fourth Druid Order or not, Drisker Arc?”
He spoke mildly and without hurry, but there was a hint of impatience to his words.
“I don’t know,” Drisker admitted.
“It always helps to know yourself before you try to know others. It helps to know yourself before you attempt to use certain kinds of magic, too.”
“Well, maybe I don’t know myself sufficiently well to use this particular magic.”
Cogline nodded. “That could well be true. Why don’t you let me know when that changes?”
And he turned away, walked into the wall, and disappeared.
SIX
Far to the southwest of Arborlon, where the Rill Song wound toward the Rock Spur, Tarsha Kaynin was nearing Backing Fell and home. She had been traveling for three days, passing countless towns and villages, all of which she had avoided, spending her nights in wooded shelters along the river, limiting any chance encounters that might lead to delays.
As she journeyed, her night in Wending Way remained a vivid memory. It was there she had encountered the old woman Parlindru, the seer who had foretold her future with such gentle certainty while they sat together in the taproom of an inn. The old woman had read her future by taking hold of her hands, and had given her three promises of what was to be.
Three times would she love and all would be true, but only one would last.
Three times would she die, but each time she would come back to life.
Three chances would she have to make a change in the lives of others, and one of the three would change the world.
The rule of three, Parlindru had told her—a rule so embedded in the fabric of life that it was absolute. Three things could define all aspects of life. Three things could explain all events and all fates. It was true for everyone, and it would be true for Tarsha.
Yet did any of this really happen or had she imagined it all, her mind fogged by weariness and ale, her imagination run wild even as she sat wide awake at her table at that inn in Wending Way? Well, perhaps. She had drunk a couple of glasses of ale, but Parlindru, while seeming to drink with her, apparently had not taken a sip. The innkeeper who had served the ale and kept watch from behind the bar had not even seen the old woman. It was all mysterious and uncertain, and Tarsha had been left with a memory that was perhaps unreliable.
She had mulled it over as she flew on, trying to settle on at least one certainty, however small, that would tip the scales. In the end, she decided it was her instincts that mattered most, her always reliable sense of what was and wasn’t real.
And her meeting with Parlindru felt decidedly real, so she resolved to stop doubting it and embrace the foretelling she had been given.
But as a result, she was saddled with expectations she could not stop thinking about—wondering when each of the three would occur, what they would look like, how she would be affected, and if she would recognize them for what they were. She did not feel fear—not even at the thought of dying three times. She believed that fate was to be taken figuratively rather than literally, and the prophecies felt like metaphors for something more complex than actual occurrences. After all, you couldn’t die three times, could you? And change the world by changing someone’s life? There were nuances to these fates, she believed—suggestions of things that would happen on a much smaller scale.
But whatever the case, the expectations were there, and the future she had been anticipating had suddenly expanded into something more fluid and at the same time settled.
So when Backing Fell approached, she put all of it aside and returned to thoughts of her brother. She wondered if her parents had ever brought him home. She wondered if he would be there when she arrived. She believed Tavo would be disappointed and hurt by her prolonged absence, but perhaps grateful, too, that she had returned. But whether he knew where she had been or not, she must find a way to reassure him that it had never been her intention to abandon him. She must explain what she was doing in a way that left him no room to doubt her intentions.
She must explain, too, about the path she had taken to find Drisker Arc and the work she was now doing as a Druid’s apprentice.
The day of her arrival was sunny and warm, the skies clear and the world bright and shiny, as if newly made and still unspoiled. She crossed from the river into the forests, bypassing her village and flying on to her parents’ cottage. When she was still a short distance away, she landed her small craft in a sheltered clearing where it was not likely to be disturbed and secured it. Leaving it behind, she began walking toward her destination. She was already rehearsing the words she would speak to her parents—and to Tavo, as well, if he was there—readying her explanations and her excuses and anticipating what lay ahead.
She passed out of the trees onto the pathway that led to her home, searching for what was familiar…
…and found instead the still-smoking ashes of what was gone forever.
Her home was in ruins, a pile of charred rubble and ash, burned to the ground, the earth beneath turned blackened and raw.
She slowed and then stopped altogether, staring in shock. There was nothing left. Everything was destroyed, everything she had expected to find, everything she remembered from her childhood. She started to call for her mother and father, then stopped. There was no one alive here; no one could have survived such devastation. What had happened? Where were her parents now?
Fearfully, she continued to approach the remains, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. It could be that her parents had chosen to find a new home, but why would their old one have burned to the ground? Was it an accident? Or was this perhaps why they had left? Deep in her heart, she knew the truth. This was Tavo’s doing. Her brother had come home, found them, and punished them for abandoning him in the only way he knew how.
She stood where she was for a time, not ten feet away, memories flashing through her mind—insistent and vivid pictures of how she had grown up here with Tavo. She remembered playing together when they were younger—until he became too wild and uncontrollable. She remembered his behavior and how it had caused him to be banished to his uncle’s farm. She remembered coming to her decision to leave home herself, knowing she must travel to the Druids if she wanted to help her brother by better understanding the magic both of them had inherited.