She broke for the passage opening, two quick steps. Cinla reappeared as if by magic, several yards away from where she had disappeared, springing at Aphen. But Cymrian was quicker. Blades flashing in both hands, he launched himself across the space separating him from Cinla and threw himself atop the cat. The moor cat half turned in response, claws slashing, jaws yawning wide. Cymrian’s blades disappeared into her thick coat, buried to the hilt. Cinla screamed—a terrible sound that ratcheted through Aphen like an explosion. She was summoning the magic already, bringing it into her fingertips, desperate to help, but it seemed to take forever.
Cymrian had fresh blades in his hands as he lost his grip on the moor cat and rolled under it. There was blood on his clothing, much of it his own, and the moor cat was still tearing at him, teeth now fastened to his shoulder. But Cymrian ignored that. Both blades slammed upward into the moor cat’s throat, plunging through the soft, exposed skin, sliding past the bones of her skull and penetrating her brain. Cinla’s head jerked upward, her killing grip released.
Aphen’s magic struck out at the big animal, hammering into the moor cat and throwing it away from Cymrian. Cinla was thrown backward and slammed into the cavern wall. The moor cat struggled up, the handles of Cymrian’s knives sticking out of her body and jaws like blunt spikes as she lurched toward them. But the blades that had penetrated her brain had done too much damage. Her strength gone, she slumped in mid-stride and did not move again.
Cymrian was on his feet instantly, ragged and bleeding, his upper torso shredded. “Elfstones!” he gasped. “Show me the way!”
Forcing herself to ignore his terrible wounds, Aphen yanked out the Elfstones and summoned their magic. The instant their brilliant light angled down the passageway and up the stairs beyond, the Elven Hunter went racing off. Aphen followed, making certain the Elfstone magic continued to illuminate the path they needed to follow. She did not know how Cymrian managed to find the strength to run as fast as he did; she could not comprehend how he remained upright. By all rights, he should be dead.
She tightened her jaw at the image her words conjured. Not that. Please, not that.
She went after him with fresh resolve, knowing he would need her, wanting to be there for him, aware of what he was doing. Aphen had glimpsed that final look on her sister’s face as she was being dragged from the cavern. Arling was not going to stand for what was being done to her. At some point, she was going to fight back. And she would do so before she was aboard Edinja’s Sprint, where she had to know she would be trussed up and rendered helpless.
Cymrian was already out of sight ahead of her. Aphen was slowed by the effort it took to focus the magic of the Elfstones so that it lit a path through the blackness ahead of her. Without the magic to guide them, relying instead on torches and memory, it would take too long to catch up to Edinja and Arling.
What they would do when they actually found them again was another matter. But apparently Cymrian had already made up his mind.
She found the long flight of stairs and ascended them in frantic leaps and bounds until she reached the maze of tunnels. Bright splashes of Cymrian’s blood dampened the rock surface beneath her feet as she ran. Her breathing was quick and labored, but she refused to slacken her pace. Every so often, she caught sight of the Elven Hunter ahead of her when the passageways straightened enough to reveal his progress. Each time he was a little farther away. She couldn’t believe he could keep this up. The moor cat had torn him open front and back, and he was bleeding heavily. It didn’t seem to matter. He wasn’t slowing down.
He would reach Arling first, Aphen realized. He would have to be the one to save her.
Faster, she urged herself silently. Or maybe she was urging him. Run faster!
When Arling was forced out of Safehold’s dark entrance and back into the deeper blackness of the tunnels, she was already preparing to break free. She couldn’t expect help from Aphen and Cymrian—not realistically—so she would have to provide the help she needed herself. It was scary to think of trying to do much of anything with a knife at her throat and her hair clutched in Edinja’s fist, but there was no other choice if she wanted to avoid being hauled off to Arborlon and sacrificed not for the good of the Elves and the other Races, but to serve Edinja’s twisted purposes.
The distinction was clear in her mind. The end result might be the same, but the means and the intent were decidedly different. She didn’t want for any of what was foreordained to transpire without Aphenglow beside her. She would need her sister’s strength, and she was determined she would have it. What she would do when she reached Arborlon, she would do only on her own terms.
Edinja had gotten her the largest part of the way back to the opening into the Hollows when she gave a terrible scream—a sound that lay somewhere between rage and despair. For an instant she relaxed her grip on Arling, dropping to her knees as if stricken. Arling, seeing her chance, twisted free and fled through the tunnels toward freedom.
She was halfway across the clearing that separated the entrance to the tunnels beneath Spire’s Reach from the surrounding woods when Edinja caught up to her. A tangling of her legs from an unseen force was her first indication of the other’s presence, a magic spell used to bring her down. She collapsed helplessly, and then the sorceress was on top of her, dragging her back to her feet by her hair.
“They’ve killed her!” Edinja Orle screamed, the words an earsplitting shriek that reverberated through the mist-shrouded air. “My Cinla!”
An instant later Cymrian burst through the opening into the caves and came for them. He did so at a dead run, no slowing, no equivocation. Blood was sheeted across the entire front of his tunic, and his white hair was wild and loose about his face. Edinja started to turn when she heard him, but hesitated just a fraction of a second. It was enough. Arling grabbed onto the other’s knife arm, slammed the back of her head against her captor’s exposed face, and wrenched free of the grip on her hair. Edinja screamed, broke the girl’s hold on her arm, and slashed at her. A deep rent opened across Arling’s chest, and blood turned her tunic crimson.
Then Edinja turned on Cymrian, both hands raised in a warding motion. Whatever magic she had invoked, it threw the Elven Hunter off his feet and sent him tumbling backward. But Arling flung herself on the sorceress once more, ignoring the pain of her wound and the sight of blood soaking through her tunic. She grappled with the witch, trying to pin her arms, to throw her to the ground. But even though Edinja was smaller than Arling, she was unexpectedly strong, and quickly broke her grip.
By now Cymrian had struggled back to his feet. He threw himself on Edinja, tearing her away from Arling and bearing her to the ground. Arling heard the force of the impact as they collided, saw Edinja’s knife flash into view, and then Cymrian was on top of her with his hands around her throat. She thrashed wildly, trying to break free. But the knife had disappeared, and her hands were empty. Her arms and legs flailed as she tried to throw him off, but he was too strong. She attempted to summon her magic, but her voice was choked off and her hands flapped uselessly. Cymrian kept his grip on her throat and did not loosen it until she went limp and her breathing was stilled.
But when she was dead, he slumped forward and rolled onto his back, and Arling saw Edinja’s knife buried in his chest.
Aphen burst into view, saw the blood from Arling’s wound, and rushed first toward her. But Arling, struggling to rise, motioned frantically toward Cymrian, and after a quick glance Aphen changed directions. By the time Arling had torn off the sleeves of her tunic and used the folded cloth to stanch the flow of blood from her knife cut, her sister was already at the Elven Hunter’s side, bending over him. Dragging herself closer, Arling could hear them whispering.