by Terry Brooks
She shook her head. “No, I don’t think that you should. It doesn’t matter now. We’ve come too far. No one’s turning back at this point.”
“But they should know. I have to tell them. It’s bad enough I didn’t do so before.”
“It’s bad you didn’t. No argument there. But you won’t accomplish anything by telling them now. Farshaun gave his life for this quest. Everyone believes in it, and it would be wrong to take that away from them. Besides, you don’t know for sure what the warnings mean. Or even if they’re real. You don’t know what’s going to happen.”
She reached across and gripped his arm hard. “You’ve committed us to this thing, and you can’t back out of it now. We have to keep going.”
They stared out at the stars for a few moments. Railing tried to think what he should say, but it was Mirai who spoke first.
“You’re looking at our task in the wrong way. You’re thinking only of Redden. Find Grianne, bring her back from wherever she is, and maybe she can save him from the Forbidding—that’s your plan. But there’s more at stake now than there was in the beginning. The Ellcrys is failing; the demons are breaking out of the Forbidding. Everyone in the Four Lands is at risk. Bringing Grianne back to face the Straken Lord is about more than helping Redden. It’s about helping everyone. Maybe Grianne can do something to stop the Straken Lord; maybe she can prevent him from invading the Four Lands.”
“If she even exists,” he said.
“Don’t talk like that. You’re the one who thinks she does. That’s why we all came with you. You better not stop believing now.”
He drew back defensively. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”
She shook her head, as if uncertain of his answer. “She was a powerful witch before she left Paranor and disappeared. Everyone knows the stories about her. But that was a long time ago. We just have to find out if she still is. We have to hope she can help.”
She paused. “We need you to return to the way you once were. We need you to be strong for the rest of us. We’ve lost all but two of the Druids, and neither one of those is here to lead us. We’ve lost Farshaun. There’s no one else. You’re the leader. You’re the one we all look to.”
She went silent again, this time for much longer. The Rovers on watch traded positions fore and aft, walking past like ghosts in the darkness. Railing tried to imagine what would happen if his efforts failed and he had to go into the Forbidding and find Redden by himself. He would do it, of course. He would do anything for his brother.
Except give up the girl sitting beside him, he thought suddenly.
Or would he even do that for Redden?
He glanced over and away again, quickly. “I won’t say anything to the others. We’ll just go on like nothing’s different, like everything will work out.”
She gave him a look. “Nothing is different. Not where this quest is concerned. And everything will work out, one way or the other.”
He felt scolded and turned away. “I guess it will.”
He felt her eyes on him, cool and appraising. “I’ll say it one more time. We all need you to be who you were when you left Bakrabru. The man Farshaun knew. You got back to that a little while ago, in a small way. Don’t forget what it took.”
He almost smiled at the implication, but managed with some effort to remain expressionless.
She stood. “I’m going to bed.”
He scrambled up. “Can I … uh, maybe …?”
She gave him a hard look. “What do you think?”
He twisted his mouth into a grimace. “I just wanted you to know that I still …” He couldn’t finish.
She stepped close and kissed him on the cheek. “See you in the morning.”
He watched her walk over to the hatchway and climb down the ladder. He waited for her to come back out again, even knowing she wouldn’t. He spent a long time in the dark, looking at nothing, thinking about her.
None of his thoughts were particularly constructive, but he enjoyed examining them nevertheless.
Six
Aphenglow Elessedil was running hard. She had given up on Cymrian, leaving him to follow as best he could. He was too badly wounded to keep up, but she had thrown caution to the winds.
The Federation had taken Arling!
She couldn’t make the words sound real. That Arling had been given over to their enemies so willingly was inconceivable, however well intentioned Sora and Aquinel’s decision. Why had they been so ready to act without knowing more about who Arling was? They had barely bothered to make an inquiry before handing her over and ridding themselves of the burden of caring for her.
Aphen ran faster, propelled by shock and rage. The sodden earth squished muddily beneath her pounding boots, hindering her efforts. She could see east across the fields ahead to where the forest encroached, forming a dark wall. The Federation airmen were in there somewhere. They would have landed their vessel where it could not be readily discovered. That assassin would have wanted it concealed while he took his creatures and came hunting for her. She saw his face in front of her, twisted with hate as he died. She remembered how hard he had tried to kill Cymrian. Could the people who had come with him—the Federation airmen and their captain, still aboard the ship with Arling as their prisoner—be any better?
She was closing on the forest when she saw the Federation warship rise above the treetops into the rain-clouded skies.
She screamed out Arling’s name, not caring that she might be heard, but knowing it did nothing to help. She summoned the Druid magic at once, bringing it raging and furious to her fingertips, gathering up its threads and weaving them into a cohesive whole. She would burn that airship out of the sky! She would incinerate those who had taken her sister, just turn them all to ash, make them sorry they had ever been born!
Gasping, shaking in fury, she raised her arms and extended them, fingers pointed at the warship. Then slowly she lowered them and began crying silently. It was no good. Her magic wouldn’t cause enough damage to matter. The vessel was too far away.
And even if it could, would she really destroy it in midair with Arling aboard? Would she risk her sister’s life like that?
She knew she wouldn’t. She stood helplessly, watching the airship disappear into the horizon, headed east across the Tirfing.
Seconds later Cymrian was beside her, his eyes on the ship as it slipped farther away in the grayness. “Did you see any flags or pennants?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I was too busy dredging up a magic that wouldn’t serve any purpose to be bothered with something that might.” Her words were edged with bitterness. “I’m sorry.”
She didn’t know why she was apologizing except that she should have done better when she’d had the chance, and this was just one more example. She wiped at her eyes, feeling empty and lost inside. “We have to go after her, Cymrian,” she said. “We can’t give up.”
He put his arms around her and held her against him. “We are going after her, and we’re not giving up. We’ll get her back.”
She was not sure if she believed there was any real chance. Arling was on her way to an unknown destination. Even if they discovered what it was, they would still have to find her. The Southland cities of the Federation were unfamiliar to her; she wouldn’t know where to begin to look.
No matter the risk of discovery, she knew she would have to use the Elfstones, or Arling would be lost to her.
Cymrian had stepped away and was searching the countryside. “We’ll need a skiff or horses, whichever we can find first. Come on, we’ve got to hurry!”
They set off again, with Cymrian leading the way, heading east in the direction of the Federation vessel, which by now was out of sight. Aphen followed obediently, not knowing what else to do, having no better idea of where to go and hoping that her protector did. They crossed the fields parallel to the woods ahead and soon encountered a river. Cymrian stopped once more, cast about for a moment, then turned upstream. In a short while they came to
a narrowing in the river and a wooden footbridge.
“Did you know this was here?” Aphen asked in surprise as they started across. “You did, didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “I know the Westland pretty well.”
“Where are we going, then?”
“A town called Marchand, just a few miles ahead. We should be able to find what we need there.”
They continued on, and although she was drained to the point of exhaustion, Aphen kept going. It couldn’t be any better for Cymrian, who had fought a fierce battle that would have killed most men only hours earlier. And if he wasn’t complaining, then she certainly wouldn’t.
It took them less than an hour to reach Marchand—a bedraggled little village of huts and cottages occupied mostly by farmers and herdsmen, situated at the edge of the Tirfing astride a tributary of the Mermidon. Cymrian took her through the village and down to a stable at the north end, where he made a bargain with the owner to purchase two horses. He looked them over first, inspecting hooves, mouths, and withers, and added in saddles and bridles before paying. Where he had gotten the coin, or even why he had it on him, was something Aphen didn’t need to ask. It didn’t matter so long as it was there and served the purpose.
They were about to leave when Aphen pointed to Cymrian. There was blood all over his clothes, and they were badly torn. Cymrian hadn’t even noticed. And Aphen wasn’t looking much better, as the Elven Hunter pointed out. He talked the stableman out of two cloaks hanging on a rack. The man handed them over without a word.
It was late in the day by now, but Aphen did not want to stop to sleep. She wanted to leave at once. And after a bit of an argument and a little foot dragging, Cymrian agreed.
So they rode through the night, traveling east across the plains in the general direction of the big Southland cities and Arishaig, in particular. Because of what the assassin had said before he died, they expected that Arling would be taken to Edinja Orle. Likely, that meant the Federation vessel would fly to Arishaig, where the Orle family kept its residences and the new Prime Minister would have been installed.
They lasted until after midnight; then it became apparent that neither could go any farther. A combination of exhaustion and accumulated damage had rendered them incapable of continuing without serious risk of further injury. They found a grove of trees where they could shelter themselves and the horses, rolled into the blankets they had added to the tack before leaving Marchand, and fell deeply asleep with barely a word to each other.
Even so, they were awake at sunrise, rested enough to be able to continue and anxious to be off.
“We have to determine where they’ve taken her,” Aphen said as they ate a little of the provisions Cymrian had bought along with the blankets. “I don’t think we can assume anything.”
“You want to use the Elfstones?” he asked.
“I think I have to.”
“It’s a big risk.”
“It’s a necessary risk.”
He didn’t argue the point. He had always been good about that. She brought out the pouch that contained the Stones and dumped them into her palm. They glittered brightly, even in the dim morning light. She studied the talismans for a moment, remembering how she had managed to use them to seek out the missing Elfstones, and then began thinking of Arling. She took her time, picturing her sister’s face until the image burned in front of her, and then she brought the magic into her hands in a roiling blue light and sent it flying away.
It was a reassuringly familiar experience. The light exploded into the hazy morning, spearing through shadows and gloom, covering miles in seconds, all across the width of the Tirfing to the walls of a giant city—one much bigger than Arborlon. The light vaulted the city walls and arrowed down wide boulevards, angling off into smaller streets and narrow alleyways, all the while burrowing deeper and deeper into the city’s core.
Finally, the light reached a black tower that soared above the buildings around it, intimidating in both size and appearance. Stark walls of blackened stone were buttressed with parapets and iron railings and gargoyles looking down on those bold enough to pass beneath, their expressions hungry, as if searching for victims.
The light entered the building and wormed its way to a bedchamber where Arling Elessedil lay sleeping in white sheets and warm blankets, to all appearances safe and secure.
Then the light flashed once and died away.
Aphen and Cymrian stared at each other. “She looks to be all right,” Aphen ventured, “but where is she?”
“She’s in Arishaig.” Cymrian shook his head doubtfully. “I think maybe Edinja has her tucked away in that tower. You’re right; she doesn’t appear to have been harmed. But that doesn’t mean she’s safe.”
“Do you think something might happen to her before we reach her?”
“I think no Elf is particularly safe in that city. Especially a young girl in the hands of Edinja Orle.”
Aphen didn’t care to speculate further. “Then let’s go find her.”
They packed and saddled their horses and set out once more. They rode all day, and two more days beyond that, in the direction the magic had indicated, keeping a steady pace save for when they stopped to rest and water the horses and eat and drink something themselves. Aphen was driven by a fresh sense of urgency. Knowing Arling was being cared for helped assuage her worries, but still she felt a desperate need to reach her sister before anything happened to change all that. If she was in the hands of Edinja Orle and the Federation, nothing could be taken for granted.
It was the night of the fourth day since the crash when the walls of Arishaig finally appeared in front of them, the rough stone surfaces lit by hundreds of torches burning down from the ramparts and up from the outer edges of the moat that surrounded the city. A roadway wound through rugged terrain and past freestanding watchtowers and lines of burning torches that directed travelers up to the city gates—a clear indication of which way those coming into the city were supposed to go.
Cymrian reined in his weary mount and peered ahead. “The gates are open. They’ll let travelers come inside, even at night, because they’re not at war.”
Aphen settled back in her saddle. “What do we do once we’re inside?”
Cymrian shrugged. “Find a tavern, have a few glasses of ale, and make a plan.”
He spurred ahead, and Aphen couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious. They rode onto the approach road and past the guard towers. No one challenged them, even though both could pick out the tower guards keeping watch over the countryside. They weren’t stopped until they reached the city walls, where the portcullis was lowered even though the big iron gates stood open.
A pair of sentries walked up to them. “Names and the nature of your business,” one said in a bored voice, barely looking at them as he readied a record log.
“Deris and Rodah Merring,” Cymrian answered at once, not even glancing at Aphen. He had pulled his recently acquired cloak tight around his shoulders to hide his bloodied clothes. “My wife comes to help her sister give birth to her first child. We’ll visit with her family for several days and then go home after the baby comes.”
The sentry glanced at Aphen and then looked down again, writing. “Your wife’s family’s surname?”
“Caliphan.” Cymrian looked at the other sentry. “Quiet tonight, is it?”
The man shrugged. “Tonight and every night.”
“Quiet on the road, too.”
The man ignored him.
The first sentry had finished writing and nodded to the second, who called to someone inside the towers bracketing the entry to raise the portcullis.
When the opening was clear, Cymrian clucked and his horse moved through. Aphen dutifully followed. “Your wife, is it?” she said quietly, once they were out of hearing.
Cymrian looked flustered. “They’re less likely to be suspicious of a married couple. No reason to give them any cause to ask more questions than they need to.”
The
y rode into the city proper, traversing streets of all sizes and configurations, most lined by a mix of businesses and residences set side by side. There were people about, even though it was after dark, the city buzzing with the steady drone of voices punctuated by bursts of laughter and occasional shouts. There were carriages and other single riders, but most walked at the edges of the roadways along narrow paths. The torches that shone from the building entries and lighted rooms beyond were smokeless. Everything looked clean and new and sterile. Aphen searched for trees and found only a few.
“I don’t like this place,” she said at one point.
Cymrian nodded. “They see things differently here. Not in the Elven way.”
Eventually they reached a different section of the city, one less pristine—rougher and with everything jammed together. Cymrian took them to a stabling service where they quartered the horses. Shouldering their packs and blankets and tightening their cloaks anew about their tattered clothes, they set out on foot into a district thick with taverns, gambling halls, and pleasure houses.
“What are we doing here?” she asked him after they had walked for some distance.
“Looking for someone.”
“An Elf?”
“A Rover who works for Elves.”
The crowds were growing thicker and more rowdy, with prospective patrons pushing and shoving one another, trying to get into the establishments that offered whatever entertainment they were seeking that night. Their talk was raucous and their laughter wild, and Aphen found herself in such close quarters she didn’t even want to breathe the air.
They stopped finally before a heavy wooden door with a small sign that read LOCKSMITH in florid black, the writing shadowed by a red stripe. Cymrian knocked once, very loudly, paused, then knocked twice more softly.
No one answered.
Cymrian repeated the knock sequence, but still no one appeared. “He must be out working,” the Elven Hunter announced, stepping away from the door and looking up at the front of the building to the darkened windows above. “Probably until very late.”
