by Terry Brooks
Then they were at the rope ladder and she was scrambling up as he held the ropes steady for her, following her a moment later, kicking back at the creatures that leapt at him, snatching at his legs. She could do nothing to help from where she hung, not without risking that the fire would burn him, as well. All she could do was keep climbing as fast as she could, hearing him behind her as she did so—hearing, too, the grunts and snarls of their attackers, feeling their combined weight shake the ladder as they scrambled to catch up.
Hearing the sounds of their breathing.
Breathing the stink of their bodies.
At the top of the ladder, she flung herself through the opening and clawed her way forward. She felt Cymrian land atop her as he launched himself over the lip of the decking, and then he was rolling back to his feet to meet the first wave of climbers. He stood his ground against them, shielding her, his blades whipping in silvery blurs. But it took a final explosion of her Druid magic to clear the decks entirely.
Then Cymrian was cutting the anchor lines while she stood at the top of the rope ladder and burned away the last of those trying to climb up.
Seconds later Wend-A-Way was lifting past massive stone spikes toward the ceiling of thick clouds that hung over it and from there into the safety of the open sky.
Blood-spattered and exhausted, Aphenglow and Cymrian cleaned themselves off with a bucket of water as Wend-A-Way hovered just above the canopy of the mist.
“What were those things?” Cymrian asked, mopping off his face and wiping his hands.
Aphen shook her head. “No idea.”
“Something like Spider Gnomes, but much more dangerous.”
“Those men on the Walker Boh never had a chance.” She was breathing hard, and her heart was still pounding. “But there were no Druids. No sign of Crace Coram or Skint or Oriantha. Not all the Troll Guards were there, either. A lot of those who were on that ship are still missing.”
“Without the Walker Boh, they’re all trapped down there. We’d better find them right away, Aphen.”
She nodded. “Well, they can’t have gotten far on foot.”
He grunted noncommittally. Then without a warning, he tore off his tunic. He was lean and sinewy, and his muscles were sharply defined. There were scars all over his body. “I can’t wear this. I need something else.” He glanced at her. “I’ll bring you fresh clothes, too.”
She started to object, and then gave up. She knew she didn’t look any better. “Just a tunic.”
Her black robe was still lying on the decking where she had left it. She had taken it off because she didn’t want to be encumbered when they went into the wilderness below. She leaned back against the pilot box and closed her eyes. They had almost not made it back, she thought suddenly. It had been very close.
“That was quick thinking,” he said, reappearing from the hold. He handed her a fresh tunic. “Using your magic like that. I almost thought we were on fire. How did you learn to do that?”
She brushed back her hair and finished wiping off her forehead and hairline. “Experimenting. An accident, really. I would have told you what was going to happen, but there wasn’t time.”
He pulled on the tunic he had brought for himself. “Doesn’t matter. I trust you.” He shrugged. “Besides, I had hold of you.” He gave her a small smile. “Whatever happened to me was going to happen to you, too.”
She remembered his arms around her. The memory gave her a funny feeling. “You did well.”
“You did better. We wouldn’t have made it out except for you.”
She looked away, suddenly embarrassed. “Turn around so I can change.”
He did so, and she slipped off her ruined tunic, wiped herself down, and then slipped on the fresh one. “That feels much better,” she said, signaling that he could turn back.
They talked over what they should do next. Dropping low enough to try to catch sight of the others was not only risky but also unlikely to produce results. Cymrian suggested he should take a flit and go in search, but Aphen didn’t like that idea, either. There were too many things that could go wrong and leave them separated, and then they would both be on their own.
“Wait, I have an idea,” she said finally. “Druids have a way of letting each other know where they are if they are close enough—a quick spurt of Druid Fire launched skyward at regular intervals. If you steer while I go forward, I can give that signal, but I’ll angle it downward into the mist. One of the other Druids might see and signal me back.”
He nodded at once. “Let me take the helm, but use a safety line and give me time to begin circling outward from where we are now. Call back to me if you see anything.”
She hurried to the forward railing, leashed herself to an iron ring embedded in the decking, and set herself in place. As the ship began to ease forward, she sent the first burst of magic into the gloom and shadows below.
They continued their efforts throughout the remainder of the day, hour after hour, easing their airship over the Fangs and sending out signals. Now and again, they heard screams of rage or distress from within the haze or saw sudden bursts of frightened movement, but no return signal appeared. The hours slipped away and with them Aphenglow’s fading hopes that there was anything left to find. If was entirely possible, she knew, that the remainder of the expedition had met with the same fate as those they had found at the crash site. She didn’t like thinking that way, but she couldn’t ignore the possibility.
She pondered the creatures that had attacked them, bothered by the fact that even though she had never seen them before, they reminded her of something. Not Spider Gnomes, but something else. She ruminated on it, left it alone, came back to it again, mulled it over some more, and finally realized.
They were Goblins!
She had seen pictures of them in the Elven histories. They had accompanied descriptions written down in the time of Faerie of the creatures that had been imprisoned within the Forbidding. Even knowing it was impossible, she was certain those were Goblins she had seen.
Except, of course, it wasn’t impossible at all. In fact, it made perfect sense. If the Ellcrys was failing, then the Forbidding was breaking down. That meant any number of imprisoned creatures might be starting to escape, Goblins among them.
And almost certainly there would be others.
A chill ran through her. What else was down there? What else might the missing members of the company have encountered after the crash of the Walker Boh? Had worse things than Goblins escaped? Were they already beginning to spread throughout the Four Lands, freed of their imprisonment and anxious to take revenge on those who had put them there?
An instant later a reddish streak of fire exploded out of the mist—one she recognized at once as having been given in response to her own. Startled by both the suddenness and unexpectedness of it, she nevertheless leapt to her feet and raced back to tell Cymrian.
In seconds Wend-A-Way was descending into the haze, and Aphenglow Elessedil was about to have all of her questions answered.
14
When she woke the first morning following her return to Arborlon, Aphen lay in bed for a long time before rising. In part, it was because there was no rush to do anything else—no immediate crisis to be faced and resolved, no desperate need to be met. In part, it was because it felt so comforting just to lie there and let the last vestiges of sleep drift away. But mostly, it was because she felt the weight of her life bearing down on her and needed to collect her thoughts and marshal her resolve.
Everything had changed.
She still could not believe that the Druid order was decimated. Bombax, Pleysia, and Carrick—all dead. Perhaps the Ard Rhys was dead, too. Of the rest, there was no better news. Almost all of them were dead, as well. It still seemed impossible, three days after finding the handful of survivors and hearing their stories. She could not find a way to make it seem real; she could not come to terms with the enormity of its truth.
But even that paled when her thoughts
shifted to what lay ahead. The future she faced was darker and harsher still. The Forbidding was coming down; the demons were breaking out. The Straken Lord—a creature that history had consigned to the past—was alive and well and seeking revenge not only against the Four Lands and its people, but against a woman who was a hundred years gone. The demon was determined to find Grianne Ohmsford and bring her to its bed, to make her its wife and the mother of its child—an image that even now caused Aphen to shudder.
Then, too, there was the matter of finding the Bloodfire, of carrying the seed of the dying Ellcrys to its source, immersing the seed and then returning it so that the tree could be reborn and the magic that protected them all could be restored. Arling’s fate, her sister’s destiny, bequeathed to her by the magical creature she served as a Chosen, was to become the tree’s successor by accepting responsibility for all of this and seeing that it came to pass.
Arling, who was so young and so afraid and so unwilling to be the One.
Arling, who now depended on Aphen to find a way to save her.
She glanced over at her sister’s bed and found it empty. Arling had already gone to begin her day of service to the tree. It was after sunrise, so she would be down in the Gardens of Life with the other Chosen, having welcomed the Ellcrys to the new day and begun her work as its caretaker and provider.
Aphen rolled over and faced the wall. Mirai Leah and Seersha were likely still asleep in the other bedroom. Skint, Crace Coram, and Railing Ohmsford shared guest quarters elsewhere with Woostra in a house Arling had found for them. Cymrian could be anywhere, probably outside her cottage somewhere, keeping watch. Did he ever sleep?
The Ard Rhys and Redden Ohmsford were still inside the Forbidding. Oriantha was still there, as well, hunting for them.
Farshaun Req and the Rover Austrum had returned to Bakrabru.
All the others were dead and gone.
She kept coming back to it. How many had there been? How many were lost? She tried counting the Trolls of the Druid Guard and could not seem to remember how many had gone with the Ard Rhys. She had never been told the number of Rovers. Then there was the Speakman, three Druids—four, counting Bombax—along with those Trolls who had died at Paranor …
She trailed off abruptly, awash in anger and dismay. What was this getting her? Thinking of the dead did nothing to help the living. Thinking of the dead was self-indulgent and pointless.
She rose, threw on her robe, then slipped from the bedroom. Once downstairs, she disdained tea for a glass of ale and carried it outside onto the porch where she sat with it and looked out on the new day. It was early still, and the cottages nearest hers were quiet. One or two Elves passed by on the roadway, but none of them turned to look or tried to speak to her. She was a ghost, she thought. She was a wraith come out of the night, and perhaps they thought she should go back into it again. Perhaps they wished her gone forever. Or perhaps they no longer even knew who she was.
Perhaps she didn’t know, either.
She finished the glass of ale and sat there, thinking through what she must do next. It was clear enough. She would go with Arling to see their grandfather and Uncle Ellich and tell them what was happening to the Forbidding. She would warn them, and together they would try to find a way to prevent the inevitable from coming to pass. She would have done so immediately on her return, but Arling had insisted that she sleep first, that she rest and then clean herself up before going to the King. How she presented herself would count for something with the old man. Going as she was might give him a heart attack.
So she had reluctantly agreed, seeing the wisdom in her sister’s suggestion, noting as she did that there was something changed about Arling, something fundamental and compelling.
Arling seemed calmer, more assured than when she had left.
She seemed more grown up.
Seersha appeared suddenly, hair wild and tousled, her face a scarred and bruised mask surrounding the black patch that covered her right eye. Her crooked smile was grim and somehow reassuring.
“I slept well,” she offered quietly, sitting next to Aphen. She was carrying her own glass of ale and a fresh one for her friend. “You?”
“Well enough. But now I’m awake and thinking about everything.”
“Welcome to the new day.” Seersha handed her the second glass of ale and toasted her. “At least we have a chance to make something useful of it, which is good.”
Aphenglow brushed back her hair, which had grown long enough by now that it was as flyaway as Seersha’s. “There’s that. I wish I had a better plan for it.”
The Dwarf shrugged. “At least we know what needs doing. That’s a reasonable start.”
Aphenglow wasn’t sure that either statement was true, but she nodded agreeably. “It’s the number of things that need doing that troubles me. There are so many of them and so few of us. How do we make up for that?”
They were quiet for a time, thinking of their dead friends and pondering the fate of Khyber Elessedil. The entire Druid Fourth Order, save the two of them, was gone. Destroyed. Paranor might still be theirs, but it had become an empty shell.
“Good morning.”
Mirai Leah came through the door and sat down beside them. She looked as beat up as they did, but her smile was bright and welcoming. She was washed and dressed and looked ready for the day. She carried tea rather than ale and sipped at it gingerly.
“You look rested,” Seersha observed. “Falling off airships must agree with you.”
“Escaping impossibly dangerous situations agrees with me,” the Highland girl replied. “But I am already thinking about going back to look for Redden and the others, so maybe the fall damaged me after all.”
The Dwarf nodded. “I’m thinking about it, too. Perhaps we suffer from the same affliction.”
Aphenglow said nothing, sipping at the cold ale. She wasn’t considering going into the Forbidding because that wasn’t where she needed to go. Not if she was to help Arling, and by now she had pretty much resigned herself to focusing entirely on that goal. Not just because it was Arling, although that was reason enough, but also because if the Forbidding were to be sealed and the Four Lands made safe, then helping her sister resolve the dilemma of how to renew the Ellcrys had assumed paramount importance.
“I might try some of that tea,” she said.
She rose and went back inside, found the kettle of brewed tea, and poured herself a cup. She inhaled the hot fumes, the steam filling her breathing passages and clearing her head. Better than the ale, she thought.
When she went back outside, she found Arlingfant waiting.
Her sister looked pleased. “I went to Uncle Ellich and asked him to arrange for us to speak privately with Grandfather. An audience has been set for midday. Uncle Ellich will meet us outside the palace when it is time.”
Aphen was caught off guard. Arling had already done what she had intended to do. When had Arling last shown initiative of that sort?
Arling seemed to sense that she might have overstepped herself. “I just thought it would help. You needed to rest, and I didn’t want Grandfather to think we were ignoring him.”
“No, you were right to speak with Ellich,” Aphen said quickly. “We will all be ready to go when it’s time.” She laughed. “Mirai is ready now.”
Arling looked embarrassed. “The audience is only for you and me, Aphen. Grandfather wants to see us alone.”
“Probably better that way,” Seersha said at once. “You can say what needs saying without Mirai and I tagging along. If there’s more that needs telling, we can have our time later.”
Aphenglow was not entirely happy with this. She had not experienced events in the way that Seersha had, and Mirai, to a lesser extent. But she knew she should not go against her grandfather’s wishes.
“Sorry, but I have to go back to the gardens and finish my work,” Arling said, interrupting her thoughts. She turned and started off. “I’ll be back before midday.”
Aphen
watched her go, then she said to the other two, “We had better talk everything through one more time. I don’t want to leave anything out when I go to see Grandfather.”
So, in painstaking detail, Seersha and Mirai went through it all again.
The morning passed quickly, even taking into account the slog entailed in retelling the fate of the doomed Druid expedition, and by midday Aphenglow was dressed and ready to meet with the King. She hugged Seersha and Mirai both, as much as for her own reassurance as for theirs, and set out for the palace with Arling beside her.
“I should have let you be the one to talk to Uncle Ellich,” Arling said to her after a few minutes of silence.
Aphen moved over and put her arm around her sister. “I should have asked you to do it in the first place. You’re just as able as I am.”
“Maybe now, but not so much before.” She leaned into Aphen. “I feel … more capable, somehow. I think it’s because I have finally stopped denying what the Ellcrys wants me to do.”
“You seem stronger.”
“I’m doing the best I can.”
Aphen could barely make herself ask, “Have you come to terms with what’s being asked of you, Arling?”
Her sister didn’t look at her, clearly uncomfortable with the question. “I’ve accepted what it means. I’ve found that I can face the idea of it. I don’t know that I can do it, though. Maybe I can. Maybe I can find a way through it.” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
They walked on a bit farther without speaking. Then Arling said, “After you left, I went back to the Ellcrys and spoke to her again, as I said I would. I spoke with her a long time. Then I went back again the next night. I went every night. Each time, we spoke a little longer, a little more openly. It became easier, even thought I was still terrified. She was kind to me. She made me understand what it was like for her. She was a girl like me once, and she remembers how she felt when she was chosen. She ran far away, trying to escape what she had been asked to do. In the end, she came back. She felt strongly enough that she had to. Even so, her delay cost lives. Many lives, I think. She still lives with that memory. She can’t forget, and she wants to save me from the same fate. It’s a powerful argument, Aphen.”
