by Terry Brooks
“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.
It was a reassuringly familiar experience. The light exploded into the hazy morning, spearing through shadows and gloom, covering miles in seconds, all across the width of the Tirfing to the walls of a giant city—one much bigger than Arborlon. The light vaulted the city walls and arrowed down wide boulevards, angling off into smaller streets and narrow alleyways, all the while burrowing deeper and deeper into the city’s core.
Finally, the light reached a black tower that soared above the buildings around it, intimidating in both size and appearance. Stark walls of blackened stone were buttressed with parapets and iron railings and gargoyles looking down on those bold enough to pass beneath, their expressions hungry, as if searching for victims.
The light entered the building and wormed its way to a bedchamber where Arling Elessedil lay sleeping in white sheets and warm blankets, to all appearances safe and secure.
Then the light flashed once and died away.
Aphen and Cymrian stared at each other. “She looks to be all right,” Aphen ventured, “but where is she?”
“She’s in Arishaig.” Cymrian shook his head doubtfully. “I think maybe Edinja has her tucked away in that tower. You’re right; she doesn’t appear to have been harmed. But that doesn’t mean she’s safe.”
“Do you think something might happen to her before we reach her?”
“I think no Elf is particularly safe in that city. Especially a young girl in the hands of Edinja Orle.”
Aphen didn’t care to speculate further. “Then let’s go find her.”
They packed and saddled their horses and set out once more. They rode all day, and two more days beyond that, in the direction the magic had indicated, keeping a steady pace save for when they stopped to rest and water the horses and eat and drink something themselves. Aphen was driven by a fresh sense of urgency. Knowing Arling was being cared for helped assuage her worries, but still she felt a desperate need to reach her sister before anything happened to change all that. If she was in the hands of Edinja Orle and the Federation, nothing could be taken for granted.
It was the night of the fourth day since the crash when the walls of Arishaig finally appeared in front of them, the rough stone surfaces lit by hundreds of torches burning down from the ramparts and up from the outer edges of the moat that surrounded the city. A roadway wound through rugged terrain and past freestanding watchtowers and lines of burning torches that directed travelers up to the city gates—a clear indication of which way those coming into the city were supposed to go.
Cymrian reined in his weary mount and peered ahead. “The gates are open. They’ll let travelers come inside, even at night, because they’re not at war.”
Aphen settled back in her saddle. “What do we do once we’re inside?”
Cymrian shrugged. “Find a tavern, have a few glasses of ale, and make a plan.”
He spurred ahead, and Aphen couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious. They rode onto the approach road and past the guard towers. No one challenged them, even though both could pick out the tower guards keeping watch over the countryside. They weren’t stopped until they reached the city walls, where the portcullis was lowered even though the big iron gates stood open.
A pair of sentries walked up to them. “Names and the nature of your business,” one said in a bored voice, barely looking at them as he readied a record log.
“Deris and Rodah Merring,” Cymrian answered at once, not even glancing at Aphen. He had pulled his recently acquired cloak tight around his shoulders to hide his bloodied clothes. “My wife comes to help her sister give birth to her first child. We’ll visit with her family for several days and then go home after the baby comes.”
The sentry glanced at Aphen and then looked down again, writing. “Your wife’s family’s surname?”
“Caliphan.” Cymrian looked at the other sentry. “Quiet tonight, is it?”
The man shrugged. “Tonight and every night.”
“Quiet on the road, too.”
The man ignored him.
The first sentry had finished writing and nodded to the second, who called to someone inside the towers bracketing the entry to raise the portcullis.
When the opening was clear, Cymrian clucked and his horse moved through. Aphen dutifully followed. “Your wife, is it?” she said quietly, once they were out of hearing.
Cymrian looked flustered. “They’re less likely to be suspicious of a married couple. No reason to give them any cause to ask more questions than they need to.”
They rode into the city proper, traversing streets of
all sizes and configurations, most lined by a mix of businesses and residences set side by side. There were people about, even though it was after dark, the city buzzing with the steady drone of voices punctuated by bursts of laughter and occasional shouts. There were carriages and other single riders, but most walked at the edges of the roadways along narrow paths. The torches that shone from the building entries and lighted rooms beyond were smokeless. Everything looked clean and new and sterile. Aphen searched for trees and found only a few.
“I don’t like this place,” she said at one point.
Cymrian nodded. “They see things differently here. Not in the Elven way.”
Eventually they reached a different section of the city, one less pristine—rougher and with everything jammed together. Cymrian took them to a stabling service where they quartered the horses. Shouldering their packs and blankets and tightening their cloaks anew about their tattered clothes, they set out on foot into a district thick with taverns, gambling halls, and pleasure houses.
“What are we doing here?” she asked him after they had walked for some distance.
“Looking for someone.”
“An Elf?”
“A Rover who works for Elves.”
The crowds were growing thicker and more rowdy, with prospective patrons pushing and shoving one another, trying to get into the establishments that offered whatever entertainment they were seeking that night. Their talk was raucous and their laughter wild, and Aphen found herself in such close quarters she didn’t even want to breathe the air.
They stopped finally before a heavy wooden door with a small sign that read LOCKSMITH in florid black, the writing shadowed by a red stripe. Cymrian knocked once, very loudly, paused, then knocked twice more softly.
No one answered.
Cymrian repeated the knock sequence, but still no one appeared. “He must be out working,” the Elven Hunter announced, stepping away from the door and looking up at the front of the building to the darkened windows above. “Probably until very late.”
“Who is it we’re looking for?” she asked him.
“His name is Rushlin.” He looked around expectantly. “We’ll have to find somewhere to spend the night.”
“Can’t we just do this ourselves?”
“Go after Arling? No, we can’t.”
She glared at him. “I don’t like the idea of waiting. Anything could happen to her while we’re sitting around.”
“I realize that. But both locks and wards likely protect the place where she’s being held. We need someone who either knows or can find out what we’re up against.”
She took a deep breath. “Rushlin?”
He nodded. “It’s what he does. We’ll come back in the morning and put him to work. He’ll know better than you or I what’s needed to reach Arling and bring her out safely. Come along.”
Taking her arm in the way a husband might his wife’s, he maneuvered them back out into the crowds milling about the streets, but in a more forceful and direct manner so that others were quick to step aside.
“What are you doing?” she snapped, trying to free herself.
“Appearances matter down here,” he replied, eyes darting left and right as he chose their path. “Our behavior determines the nature of our relationship. So stop struggling and laugh a bit. Just pretend.”
They worked their way up the street they were on, down one alleyway that connected to another, and then on for several more blocks to an inn called Port Arms Redoubt, its sign decorated with a military crest that Aphen did not recognize.
“We stay here,” he told her, opening the door for them.
“We can do better,” she pointed out, looking around doubtfully.
“Much. But remember who we are supposed to be and how we should look to those around us. We are not people who can afford to do better or even care about where we stay. We just want to get into bed with each other.”
He squired her up to the innkeeper’s desk, requesting a room in a decidedly salacious manner, patting her rump possessively as he did so. He signed the register with a flourish, gave the innkeeper a knowing wink, then wheeled Aphen away from the desk and practically dragged her up the stairs to the second floor.
When they were in their squalid little room with its single bed, its worn chest of drawers, and its rickety wooden chair, she gave him a look. “You enjoyed that.”
He sat down on the edge of the bed and looked at her. “Maybe just a little. Look, I did what I felt I had to do in order to prevent the innkeeper from thinking we were anything other than a man and a woman out for a good time. There are dozens just like us passing through this fine establishment, so we fit right in. He will already have forgotten about us. We don’t want him talking about us while we’re here, and we don’t want him remembering us after we’re gone.”
She stared at him a moment. “You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You know all about it.”
He shrugged. “I know how to blend in. I know how to pretend to be something I’m not. I learned that when I was spying for the Home Guard. I was sent to the Southland cities to find things out, and I had to disguise who and what I really was from everyone around me. Sometimes for months.” He paused. “And, no, I haven’t done this before. Not this exactly. I was always on my own.”
She nodded quickly, chagrinned by her outburst. What was wrong with her? He brushed at his white-blond hair and watched her closely. “Are you hungry? Do you want to get something to eat?”
She stood where she was, studying him some more. “I know barely anything about you. We’ve been together for weeks, and I know next to nothing.”
He looked away. “You know what matters. You know why I’m here. Arling told you, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want something to eat?” he repeated.
“No. I’m too tired to eat. I just want to sleep.”
He got up from the bed immediately. “Lie down. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t want you to do that. Stay in the bed with me. It’s cold in here.”
He lay back down and she scooted against him, arranging their cloaks to cover them both. She could feel his warmth through her clothing.
“That’s better,” she said. “Put your arms around me.”
He did so, saying nothing, but she could feel the tension in him. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, so she put them where she wanted them. “Just hold me. I want to feel good about something. I’m tired of feeling wrung out and lost.”
They lay there for a long time without talking, allowing the warmth they generated to infuse and wrap them about. Aphen listened to his breathing, to the rustling he made with little changes in his position. She felt him pressed up against her from behind, and it gave her a sense of peace and well-being.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult,” she whispered into the darkness.
“Would you mind if I kissed you?” he asked.
“No.”
So he kissed her on the back of her head and then on the side of her face and then on the mouth before pulling back. “I would like it if you really were my wife,” he said.
She was on the verge of saying she didn’t think she would mind it, either, when she found herself remembering Bombax. She felt a sharp pang of guilt, or perhaps only sadness. Her promised, her partner, her lover—dead such a short time ago. It gave her pause. It suddenly felt strange to be thinking of Cymrian when she had just lost Bombax. Yet the Borderman was gone, and he was not coming back. And she had come to love her protector, perhaps as much as he loved her. She had kissed him fiercely when he had gone off to face Stoon and his mutants. She had been so afraid she would lose him, too.
Was there good reason to mourn Bombax any longer than she already had? How long was long enough?
“We could pretend to be husband and wife,” she said quietly. “Why don’t you kiss me some more?”
So he did as she asked. His kisses
were slow and sweet and welcome, and she let them continue without pulling away.
Then she began kissing him back, and suddenly neither one could stop.
When she woke, he was turned away from her and she felt the cold that the separation had left between them. She took a moment to study him in the pale dawn light—the lines of his face and the strength in his features—before rising. She found herself captivated by what she saw, drawn to him with fresh need, warmed by memories of what they had shared. But last night was gone, and Arling needed them.
There was a basin on the chest of drawers, and she splashed some of the water it contained on her face to help wash away the sleep. She went to the dingy window and looked out and wondered when her life would ever become something she valued again.
They ate breakfast on the street from a food cart and walked back to the shop they had visited the night before. It was still early, but neither gave a thought to waiting just because Rushlin had been out late the night before. Finding Arling was far too important for delays, and they had already lost the better part of four days.
Cymrian knocked in the same sequence he had the previous night, and this time the door opened almost immediately.
“I knew it was you,” the man standing there announced. “I could smell you.”
He was young and smooth-shaven with dark hair and quick, anxious eyes that kept looking around as he waited for them to enter. He had a fox face, sharp-featured and narrow, all planes and angles. For someone who had been out and about for most of the night, he was surprisingly alert and rested looking.
“We came looking for you last night,” Cymrian admitted.
“I was working,” the other replied. “Come in and sit. I’ve made some tea.”
They went into a small sitting room with a work desk and some chairs and sat. Rushlin brought out a worn tea service and filled the cups. For a few moments they said nothing, enjoying the aroma and taste of the tea.
“A green tea,” Aphen ventured.
“Good guess. What is it you think I can do for you?”
Cymrian told him, giving a full and careful description of the building they were looking for. “We need to get inside. But we can’t be caught going in or coming out.”