rose to a higher pitch. If it were
possible, the pain redoubled. Brand’s vision swam, and he knew that there were
only moments left before he
fell from the horse as had Kareste.
And then he heard another sound. Faint at first, but
something different from the high-pitched daggers in his ears. It was Bragga
Mor’s flute. As it had been earlier, so was it now: beautiful, sweet, haunting.
The chanting of the witch faltered for just a moment. She
seemed perplexed by how to take this new sound up into her attack. In that
moment Kareste regained her feet. She staggered up, but she did not attack with
her sword or try to summon power from Shurilgar’s staff.
Brand, his newfound senses growing day by day, dimly
perceived her mind reach out, and her own power become one with the music of
the flute.
He was
staggered by the shadowy sense of what she was doing. With skill and precision
her power became one with the music, and swift as thought took hold of it and
transformed it into a kind of shield. It veiled them from the witch’s attack,
not nullifying it completely, but subduing it so that it was no more than an
unpleasant noise.
He realized that though his sensitivity to lòhrengai was
growing, he had only the same skill in the craft as a young boy picking up a
sword for the first time. It had taken him years of hard practice to acquire
the skill to be bodyguard to the king, and that same effort awaited him if ever
he wished to become proficient with the power that was in him.
He shut down that line of thinking. It was yet another way
the magic inside him tempted him to its use, for to learn a skill was a challenge, and the harder something was to achieve the
more Brand set his mind to attain it.
All sound in the wood now seemed muffled, yet still Brand
heard the witch shriek. Whether it was in anger or pain, he did not know, but he sensed her frustration
and knew instinctively that the danger had not passed. She would not give up on
claiming the staff, and a new attack was imminent.
As soon as Brand had that thought he knew that he must
attack to forestall her. But driven by need rather than considered reason, his
body reacted with an instinct of its own, or at least the magic that was in him
did.
Without thinking he raised Aranloth’s staff. Fire burst from
it; a hot wild stream that roared to life and leaped at the witch like a living
thing.
He rode toward her, forgetting his sword and concentrating
only on the flame.
Kareste moved also. No flame came from Shurilgar’s staff,
but it was raised in threat. It was a threat that Durletha saw and understood.
She understood also that her attack had failed. Temptation had not worked, nor
surprise. And she did not like it.
The witch hissed again. Her left arm she held up as a
shield, and by the power that was in her she rebuffed Brand’s flame. A small
thing for her to do, and easily could she turn it aside and launch her own
assault upon him. But for this Kareste waited, for in that moment she would
strike herself, and the witch would be open to a greater attack, directed by
skill and strength.
“Begone!” Kareste yelled, taking up Brand’s words.
The witch looked at them, poised amid the flame, beaten, but
not defeated.
“This is not over,” she said. “It will never be over until
that staff is in my hands, and then the other half after it. Old as the hills I
am, and I have patience. I’ll watch you fall yet, and it will be all the
sweeter.”
With a toss of her ash-blond hair she fixed Brand with a
look of hatred, and he wished never to see such a look again, for it was
Kareste, Kareste as she would be if she fell to the Shadow and refused to
destroy the staff at the end. It was the way she would look at him if they
fought, and fight they must, no matter that it was the last thing he wanted, if
that came to pass. For he saw now more clearly than ever before, understood so
much better Aranloth’s warning, that for the sake of Alithoras the staff must
be
possible, the pain redoubled. Brand’s vision swam, and he knew that there were
only moments left before he
fell from the horse as had Kareste.
And then he heard another sound. Faint at first, but
something different from the high-pitched daggers in his ears. It was Bragga
Mor’s flute. As it had been earlier, so was it now: beautiful, sweet, haunting.
The chanting of the witch faltered for just a moment. She
seemed perplexed by how to take this new sound up into her attack. In that
moment Kareste regained her feet. She staggered up, but she did not attack with
her sword or try to summon power from Shurilgar’s staff.
Brand, his newfound senses growing day by day, dimly
perceived her mind reach out, and her own power become one with the music of
the flute.
He was
staggered by the shadowy sense of what she was doing. With skill and precision
her power became one with the music, and swift as thought took hold of it and
transformed it into a kind of shield. It veiled them from the witch’s attack,
not nullifying it completely, but subduing it so that it was no more than an
unpleasant noise.
He realized that though his sensitivity to lòhrengai was
growing, he had only the same skill in the craft as a young boy picking up a
sword for the first time. It had taken him years of hard practice to acquire
the skill to be bodyguard to the king, and that same effort awaited him if ever
he wished to become proficient with the power that was in him.
He shut down that line of thinking. It was yet another way
the magic inside him tempted him to its use, for to learn a skill was a challenge, and the harder something was to achieve the
more Brand set his mind to attain it.
All sound in the wood now seemed muffled, yet still Brand
heard the witch shriek. Whether it was in anger or pain, he did not know, but he sensed her frustration
and knew instinctively that the danger had not passed. She would not give up on
claiming the staff, and a new attack was imminent.
As soon as Brand had that thought he knew that he must
attack to forestall her. But driven by need rather than considered reason, his
body reacted with an instinct of its own, or at least the magic that was in him
did.
Without thinking he raised Aranloth’s staff. Fire burst from
it; a hot wild stream that roared to life and leaped at the witch like a living
thing.
He rode toward her, forgetting his sword and concentrating
only on the flame.
Kareste moved also. No flame came from Shurilgar’s staff,
but it was raised in threat. It was a threat that Durletha saw and understood.
She understood also that her attack had failed. Temptation had not worked, nor
surprise. And she did not like it.
The witch hissed again. Her left arm she held up as a
shield, and by the power that was in her she rebuffed Brand’s flame. A small
thing for her to do, and easily could she turn it aside and launch her own
assault upon him. But for this Kareste waited, for in that moment she would
strike herself, and the witch would be open to a greater attack, directed by
skill and strength.
“Begone!” Kareste yelled, taking up Brand’s words.
The witch looked at them, poised amid the flame, beaten, but
not defeated.
“This is not over,” she said. “It will never be over until
that staff is in my hands, and then the other half after it. Old as the hills I
am, and I have patience. I’ll watch you fall yet, and it will be all the
sweeter.”
With a toss of her ash-blond hair she fixed Brand with a
look of hatred, and he wished never to see such a look again, for it was
Kareste, Kareste as she would be if she fell to the Shadow and refused to
destroy the staff at the end. It was the way she would look at him if they
fought, and fight they must, no matter that it was the last thing he wanted, if
that came to pass. For he saw now more clearly than ever before, understood so
much better Aranloth’s warning, that for the sake of Alithoras the staff must
be
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