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.