“And be careful. Be wary of everyone. I don’t want anything happening to you while you are back there.”
Aphenglow gave a quick smile, rose, and left the room. Khyber Elessedil watched her go, resisting the urge to call her back. She did not want to lose Aphen. But she had to let her go.
Be careful, she repeated silently.
All of us.
9
There was no doubt about it. Those sprints were one wicked pair of machines.
They sat side by side in the metal-clad storage shed, resting on wheeled trailers that allowed them to be pulled out into the open where they could be readied for use. Painted black from mast to keel, light sheaths black as well to better absorb the power of the sun, they had long, narrow hulls stripped of everything that might slow them down. The parse tubes were embedded in the hull behind hatches that facilitated easy replacement of the diapson crystals. The controls were set to either side of a shallow depression that served as a cockpit, all within easy reach of the pilot. The pilot lay on his back with his head slightly elevated, facing forward down the length of his body toward the bow. A thin padding lined the cockpit floor and walls, providing a modicum of comfort and a small amount of protection. A leather harness strapped the pilot in place, and a windshield constructed of metal, wood, and mesh allowed him to peer ahead over the rim of the hull’s curved surface without an undue amount of risk of being blinded by flying debris.
Inside the cockpit, the thrusters and steering levers were manipulated by a combination of hands and feet, the cords that ran from the levers to the sheaths, rudder, and fins drawn so tightly that even the smallest amount of pressure would produce a response in the vessel’s handling. The twins had built the Sprints this way on purpose. These slender black monsters weren’t designed as transports; they were built to race.
What the Sprints were, when you came right down to it, were modified flits, their superstructures pared down to the bare minimum of weight and material. They were a work in progress, of course, but it appeared that they were now as close as possible to what their builders intended.
Today’s test would determine whether or not this was so.
“They certainly look ready,” Redden Ohmsford offered, contemplating the sleek craft with satisfaction. “I don’t know what else we could do to make them go any faster.”
His brother nodded. “Are we going to take them into the Shredder?”
Railing Ohmsford smiled as he said it, knowing full well that this was exactly what they were going to do, having already decided as much while they were testing the Sprints over the broad expanse of the Rainbow Lake. But testing a craft over open water wasn’t as challenging as taking it through an obstacle course of dead trees and jagged rocks. Their mother had made them promise not to race the Sprints anywhere but over the lake, but like most boys verging on manhood and testing the limits of parental authority, they didn’t always listen.
Besides, they had rationalized, talking it over to convince themselves that it was all right to breach this agreement, they had flown everything from flits to skimmers to sleeks, so surely they could handle this. They might not have flown warships yet, the great ships-of-the-line that required entire crews to sail them, but they would get around to it eventually.
Their unwritten rule regarding airships was that if they could build it, they could fly it. Anywhere they wished.
“Well, it’s a good day to try it out,” Redden replied, grinning back at his mirror image—small, lean, and fit, with mischievous blue eyes, wild red hair, and only a hint in his ears, brows, and cheekbones of the Elven blood they had inherited from their mother. It was a wonder, he thought for the umpteenth time, that anyone could tell them apart.
It was scary fun, really. Frequently, they pretended to be each other, just because they could get away with it. Sometimes twins weren’t really all that much alike, in either looks or behavior. Sometimes they looked a lot alike, but you could still always tell them apart. But not Redden and Railing Ohmsford. Right down to their Elven features, they looked exactly the same. A human father and an Elven mother had produced Halfling twins in a family that had never had twins before. What were the odds that an anomaly would produce exact duplicates? Even their mother had trouble, and she saw them practically every day and knew everything there was to know about them.
Well, practically everything. No boy ever told his mother everything.
In any event, only one person—Mirai Leah—could tell the difference. The brothers thought they knew why, but it wasn’t something they ever discussed.
Railing looked over at Redden. “What are we waiting for?”
They hauled the trailers out of the storage shed using ropes attached to the trailer hitches. Each chose the one he would fly, Redden going first as Redden usually did, and then they climbed aboard to ready their vessels. It took them longer than usual because they made certain to check everything twice, knowing that the element of danger in today’s exercise was much greater than anything they had encountered before. They put up the raked-back masts, attached the cut-down light sheaths to the radian draws, and ran the draws to the parse tubes. The diapson crystals were already in place, but they kept the parse tubes hooded so that the crystals wouldn’t start to power up too quickly.
They had built the Sprints themselves, working together, skilled enough in the construction of small vessels that they could almost do so blindfolded. There were adjustments and changes required for a vessel intended to be this fast and maneuverable, one designed solely for racing. It took a bit of trial and error to get it right, and they had reconfigured and reconstructed both Sprints any number of times while they were testing them out over the open waters of Rainbow Lake. But they lived in Patch Run, as had their parents, their grandparents, and their great-grandparents before them, so they had ready access to the perfect testing ground and a raft of seasoned shipbuilders located all around them who were ready and able to teach them whatever it was they needed to know to improve their skills.
Beyond what help was available close at hand, they also had access to the considerable experience and skills of their Rover kin, the Alt Mers, who lived in the Westland in the country surrounding Bakrabru on the shores of the Myrian. Their great-grandmother had been Rue Meridian, who had married Bek Ohmsford, and Redden was named for her brother, Redden Alt Mer. Railing was given the name of a favorite uncle. Both Rue Meridian and Redden Alt Mer were famous for having flown with the Druid Walker Boh aboard the Jerle Shannara in search of Parkasia, and Rue had later fought with the Druid Ard Rhys Grianne Ohmsford against the Federation and the rebel Druids under Shadea a’Ru. Both brother and sister had been skilled fliers in their time; those skills had been passed down through both families and were now firmly a part of Redden and Railing’s own talents.
But they had another advantage, as well. Both brothers had inherited the magic of the wishsong, a part of the genetic makeup of the Ohmsford family since the days of Wil Ohmsford that had manifested itself in various members of their family over the years. Wish for it, sing for it, make it come alive—that was what the wishsong could do for you. You could change and reshape anything. You could create something new out of something old. You could affect the way animate objects reacted. You could influence life and death.
It was an awesome, terrifying gift—or curse, if you believed some of the Ohmsford family history. Both their great-grandfather and their grandfather had possessed the magic, and it had saved them and many others during the course of their lives but also maimed and killed. It was a dangerous and not altogether predictable power. It had skipped their father, for which their mother was eternally grateful, but had surfaced anew in the twins, for which she was not.