High druid of Shannara_ Jarka Ruus - Terry Brooks [146]
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