by Terry Brooks
Khyber led the young Elven woman down the hall and into her personal study. She gestured for Aphenglow to take a seat and then set about making tea. Only after the tea was ready and both were sipping from the steaming mugs did she ask what Aphen wanted.
“Two things, in fact.” Aphenglow seemed to gather her thoughts. “Let me start with a request. I would like permission to seek an audience with the King when I reach Arborlon. I intend to ask him to lend us use of the Elfstones.”
Khyber nodded, keeping her face expressionless. “Why would you do that, Aphen? In all the centuries the other Elfstones have been missing, no one has ever been successful in using the blue Elfstones to find them. Why would it be any different now?”
“I don’t know that it would.” Aphen brushed back strands of her long blond hair and tightened the ribbon that held the thick mane back from her face. “But if it were to turn out that the blue Elfstones could help, wouldn’t we want to have them in our possession?”
“We would. Do you know of my agreement with Arling Elessedil?”
“When you returned the Elfstones almost a century ago, you extracted a promise from her that if you asked to borrow them, she would allow it. That was the condition for their return.”
“So you would rely on that in making your argument to the King?”
“He is bound by his mother’s word.”
“I wouldn’t count on that, Aphen. Your grandfather is of a different mind and temperament than your great-grandmother, but he is still her son.”
“Nevertheless, we are family, and even if he doesn’t agree with my choice to come here and study with you, he respects my decision. I think he might agree because of that.”
“But all of this is pointless if the Elfstones won’t help. Why do you suddenly think they would?”
Aphenglow shook her head. “I don’t think anything. I am just considering possibilities. It would support my request if it came through you, so I am requesting permission to approach the King on the matter if I deem it useful.”
Khyber studied her quietly. Wheels within wheels. Aphenglow had something specific in mind—something she wasn’t revealing. “Very well. I give you permission. But don’t abuse it by taking unnecessary risks. And you are not to tell your grandfather or anyone else in your family what it is we are seeking. Not a hint of it. What is the second matter you wish to discuss? Another request?”
Aphenglow shook her head. “In all the excitement of finding the diary and coming back to find you awake, I forgot to tell you something else I discovered while searching through the Elven records. Not through the histories themselves, but through the ancillary records—the genealogy charts of the Elven Kings and Queens, in particular.”
“You found something else?”
“I did, although I haven’t decided what to make of it. I found that before the Omarosian line died out, it merged with the Elessedils. So the Elessedils are related to the Omarosians in a very distant way. I have kept this private because it only has to do with us. With the Elessedil family.”
Khyber was instantly certain Aphenglow was wrong about this, but she couldn’t say why. It was an instinctual reaction but one so strong that she could not ignore it. The connection between Elessedils and Omarosians was much more important than Aphenglow realized.
“We can keep this private,” she agreed. “At least until we understand more fully what it means. When you return to Arborlon, expand your search to look for something about the connection between the two families. There must be something on this. The Elessedil records are very thorough. Speak to your mother about it.”
She saw Aphenglow blanch, and she knew that her relationship with her mother had not improved. “Do what you can, Aphen,” she finished.
The young woman made a face. “I will try, Mistress.”
“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 o
dds 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.
They didn’t use it much or even talk about it. Especially not in front of their mother, who mistrusted the magic and those who used it, particularly the Druids. She knew it was a part of her sons’ makeup—it was impossible to disguise its presence completely—but had no idea of the extent to which they had employed it. They were very careful not to let her discover the truth because their mother, like so many others, had ways of knowing things she wasn’t told.
If they were very good at hiding which of them was which, they were masters at hiding their involvement with the wishsong.
Thinking of it now, Railing stopped what he was doing and looked over at his brother. “Are we going to use the wishsong this morning?” he asked quietly. “Or do we wait for another time?”
Redden paused midway through securing a line. They had experimented only a little with using the magic to enhance the power emitted by the diapson crystals, which in turn would make the Sprints go faster. “I don’t know. What do you think we should do?”
Railing grinned. “You know what I think. One pass without using it, one pass using it. Wasn’t that what you wanted me to say?”
His brother shrugged, his lean face expressionless. “Maybe.”
They went back to work, finishing up with their preparations, making both Sprints ready to fly. When they were done, they leaned over the sides of the vessels and released the stays securing them to the trailers. A last check on the controls, making sure they were loose and ready to respond, and they were ready.
“This should be fun,” Redden offered drily.
“If we survive,” Railing replied.
They lay flat in the cockpits facing forward toward Rainbow Lake, secured their safety belts, and gave each other a final glance.
“A quick swing out onto the lake and back first?” Railing asked.
“Out and back and right into the Shredder.”
With a final nod to each other, they unhooded the parse tubes and let the light sheaths billow out. The radian draws began to glow immediately, and they felt the hum of the diapson crystals as they came alive with the sun’s raw power. The brothers engaged the control, and the Sprints lurched sharply, lifted off their cradles, and wheeled toward the lake.
“Let’s fly!” Redden shouted.
Railing flipped the thruster levers all the way forward, and his Sprint leapt away with the quickness and power of a moor cat lunging, smooth hull cleaving the air like a knife, mast vibrating with the force of the acceleration, and light sheath whipping sideways, the boom barely missing the top of his head. Out across the surrounding woods flew the Sprint, whipping so close to the treetops that Railing could hear branches scraping the underside of the hull. Reacting quickly, he eased the craft upward, away from the danger, following the sleek black hull of his brother’s Sprint. Wind whipped across his eyes, causing them to tear, and he wiped his face quickly against his shoulder.
Together the Ohmsford brothers skimmed across the canopy of the woods bordering Rainbow Lake, gained the shoreline, and burst into the clear, leveling out about twenty yards above the water’s surface. They flew north out into the open water, the lake spreading away before them in a brilliant blue that mirrored sunlight and sky. The waters were still this day, free of waves, untroubled by wind. The sun was high overhead, the sky empty of clouds. Everything was bright and sharp and clear, and as they raced out into the emptiness they could smell the lake and feel its coldness.
Only minutes had passed before Railing caught Redden gesturing in a circular motion, indicating he was getting ready to swing back around toward the Shredder. Railing signaled back that he was ready, too, and tightened his hands on the controls. Even in the few short days he had not flown while working on the Sprints, he had forgotten how free and wonderful it felt to fly them. There just wasn’t anything else like it, nothing even close. Flying the bigger skimmers and transports and scout craft was fun, but they were slow and cumbersome and predictable compared with the Sprints. Speed made all the difference. When he was flying like this—fast and unencumbered and barely under control—it felt as if he could escape everything, rise right on up into the stars and leave it all behind. Sometimes he wanted to do that. He would feel his life pressing down on him, the constraints and obligations, the demands and expectations, and all he could think about was breaking free and flying away.
It was a selfish way of thinking, but he knew Redden felt the same. They had talked about what they would do whe
n they were old enough to leave home to explore the larger world and discover what was out there waiting for them. They could have left by now if they’d wanted; certainly they had skills and ambition enough to make their way. But they weren’t adults yet, and their mother had already made it clear she didn’t want them going until they were. Their father was a dozen years gone, dead in an airship crash—an accident that had left their mother shattered and bitter and determined to protect her children. As if that were possible, Railing thought. As if you could ever protect your children from what life might bring their way. Or even from themselves and their impulses.
But the illusion of it was all their mother had to cling to, so they had promised her long ago they would stay until they were grown. It was only now they were beginning to regret that promise. Life in Patch Run was safe and predictable, and the brothers were ready for something else. They had always been wild, a condition Railing attributed to their genetic makeup. If there was a risk to be taken, a dare to be accepted, or a boundary that shouldn’t be crossed, they were willing to defy the odds. He couldn’t explain it. But he knew how they were, and he knew it was unlikely they would ever change.
Like now, as their Sprints whipped across the surface of Rainbow Lake and closed on the wicked maze of rocks and dead trees that formed the Shredder. They had made this run several times before with much slower craft, with hybrids and modifieds and junk they had cobbled together and tested in ways that the poor things weren’t meant to be tested, just to see what they would do. When it came to airships, they never troubled themselves with measuring risk. It was the experience that mattered, and that wasn’t likely to change as long as their mother didn’t find out what they were doing.
So far she hadn’t.
Well, mostly.
They couldn’t keep everything from her. She had caught them a few times. But the things she’d found out were so insignificant she wasn’t overly troubled. Like the time they stole Arch Ehlwar’s skip and rode it across the lake and up the Runne to Varfleet to watch the Sprint races two summers ago. Or the time they flew down into the Mist Marsh and stayed the night. But she hadn’t found out how they had acquired the diapson crystals that powered their various vessels, including the ones they were flying now. She hadn’t found out how they had manipulated the black market for these and other materials they needed to construct their experimental craft.