Bloodfire Quest

by Terry Brooks

  But he had felt otherwise, and his judgment in such matters was final. His experience was deeper, and the decision had not been hers to make.

  She ran faster, the sounds ahead all gasps and grunts and cries of pain and rage. She was doing nothing to hide her coming, unwilling to slow down to mask her approach, certain that time was not something she could afford to waste—not even a second of it. Mist and shadows swirled about her, creating a confusing miasma that threatened to lead her astray. But the sounds were close now, and she could track her destination by that alone.

  Abruptly she burst into a clearing in which bodies lay everywhere and blood soaked the greenery in bright patches.

  Movement caught her eye, and that was when she saw the man who had tried to kill her during the battle for Paranor, the assassin who had thought to catch her unawares and strike her down from behind. She would never forget his face, and on seeing it now she bared her teeth and rushed at him. He was dragging himself toward Cymrian, a knife gripped in his hand. Even now, as she raced to stop him, he tried to use it, stretching out his arm toward her protector, slashing and stabbing wildly in an effort to finish the job.

  But Cymrian was just out of reach, and Aphen was on top of the assassin before he could crawl closer. She stripped him of his weapon and pinned his arms against the earth so that he could not reach for another. She could feel him struggling beneath her, could hear the harsh labor of his breathing.

  “You’re … crushing me!” he gasped.

  She stayed where she was. “Who are you?”

  “No … one.”

  He could barely speak now, his strength ebbing. His wounds were terrible, and she could tell at a glance he would not survive them. “Why are you trying to kill us? You don’t even know us!”

  He laughed, a terrible rattling in his throat. “I … don’t have to … know you … to kill you.”

  She took a chance. “Is it the Elfstones? Is that what you are after?”

  He nodded once. “She … wants to …”

  He couldn’t finish, blood spilling from his mouth.

  “Wants to what? Tell me.”

  “Wants … to know.”

  She was getting nowhere, and she needed to go to Cymrian. She glanced over. He was lying on his side, watching her through pain-fogged eyes, listening to what was being said. She could see the blood on his body and the blade buried in his back. But she needed to continue with what she was doing.

  She bent close to the dying man. “You said ‘she’ wants to know? Who? Give me a name!”

  The assassin laughed.

  “Don’t die and leave her safe! Tell me who she is!”

  His eyes found hers, and she could see death clouding them. “Why … not? She’s … killed me. Maybe she will … kill you … as well.”

  He was racked by a sudden fit of coughing, and for a moment Aphen was certain she had lost him and would never know the name of the one who had sent him.

  But then he gathered himself and whispered, “Edinja … Orle. Now, you …”

  But then his voice faded, and his eyes fixed in a vacant stare. The life went out of him with a soft sigh, and he was gone.

  She stared down at him a moment longer, then got up and went over to Cymrian, kneeling beside him, her hand on his cheek.

  He smiled up at her. “You got here … just in time.”

  “Don’t talk.” She bent close to him, searching for his wounds. She found the worst of them quickly enough. The knife that had caused the first was still buried in his back. A deep penetration to his chest marked the second, although the blade was no longer there. Both were bleeding freely, the rents ragged and gaping. She reached for his hands, gripping them in her own. “Close your eyes. Keep them closed.”

  She sent a wave of numbing magic all through his body to ease the pain, and then followed it with an infusion of sleep magic that put him under completely. When that was done, she began work. She stanched the flow of blood to the chest wound, searching for internal injuries to his vital organs. Finding none, she pinched the edges of the torn skin and muscle together and sealed it with a fusing of tissue. It took a long time and deep concentration, and she worried all through it that she was sacrificing the back wound in the effort. But she knew this injury was the more serious, and that the loss of blood from the other wound was not as severe.

  While she worked, Cymrian made small noises, but was otherwise still. She stroked his brow once and kissed it afterward, anguished by what had been done to him. He had defended Arling and herself against all three of these creatures, mutants and assassin alike. He had sacrificed himself for them, and she would never doubt again what her sister had told her about his reason for taking on the job of protector.

  That he loved her.

  That he had always loved her.

  She hadn’t believed it before. She couldn’t conceive of it being true. So many years had passed since she had even seen him. So much had happened since they were children, and yet none of it seemed to have mattered. None of it had diminished his feelings for her. She wondered at his obstinacy, at his dogged determination to have her—how else could she think of it? But she knew even as she thought it that this wasn’t it at all. It was more akin to the taking of a vow. It was making of a commitment to something he believed in so utterly that he would wait as long and do as much as was necessary to see it fulfilled.

  Even though the effort cost him his life.

  As might happen here, if she failed to heal him.

  She finished with the chest wound and moved on to the damage to his back. She laid him out facedown and extracted the knife, reaching along the razor-sharp edge of the blade to its tip with her magic to make certain he was shielded as she worked on him. His lungs and heart were unscathed, the injuries he had incurred confined to muscle and tissue and a complex network of blood vessels. The blade removed, she began the effort of mending arteries and veins so that the ends joined perfectly, tying together sinew and ligament, repairing torn muscles, and cleansing the whole of lingering infection.

  By the time she was done, she was exhausted. She took time to bind up both wounds with strips of cloth she tore from the clothes worn by the dead assassin. Then she closed her eyes for what she expected to be a moment’s rest and promptly fell asleep.

  Arlingfant Elessedil is dreaming.

  She rides in an airship, high above the ground, lost in clouds that seem to buoy the vessel in the manner of an ocean’s waters. Through holes in these clouds, Arling can spy the earth far below—a distant patchwork of green woods, blue lakes, silver rivers, and brown mountains, all of it perfectly formed and reassuring. She is pleased to be able to observe it, but to remain above it, too. She can see it without touching it, can witness its presence without having to descend.

  She is afraid it might not be real.

  Aphenglow rides next to her. Her sister wears white robes that billow and flow like gauzy streamers. She smiles when Arling glances at her, further reassurance that all is well. Arling speaks to her, although she is uncertain of the words she uses. But Aphenglow doesn’t answer; she only smiles again and then points.

  Ahead, looping through the clouds, is a flock of giant birds, their wings as wide as the airship is long, great predators in search of food. But they do not seem to notice the airship and continue their flight without paying it the slightest attention.

  When Arling looks to her sister for an explanation, Aphen is gone.

  Seconds later she sees her sister in the pilot box, standing at the controls. There are others aboard the airship, too. She cannot see who they are, but she knows instinctively they are Elves. They scurry along the decks and climb the rigging of the masts and work the radian draws and trim the light sheaths. They do sailors’ work, and nothing interrupts or distracts them from their efforts, even her calls of encouragement.

  Suddenly the airship lurches and drops before steadying again. Arling seizes the railing against which she has been leaning, catching herself so that
she does not fall. She feels her heart in her throat, and she is suddenly afraid. The airship jolts and drops a second time, and now she looks to the pilot box for Aphen. But her sister has vanished, disappeared into the ether. Nor are the other Elves still aboard. All are gone, as if they never were.

  She is alone.

  Terrified, she struggles across the deck as the airship begins to spiral downward, dropping swiftly earthward. She is intent on reaching the controls so that she can slow the vessel’s descent. But even though she fights her way across the heaving deck, she can never seem to get any closer to the pilot box. She is moving steadily, but the deck stretches out and grows longer. The airship drops through layers of clouds, sinking into them one moment and then abruptly falling back out again. Because she is no longer standing at the railing, she cannot tell how far she has fallen or how close the ground is beneath her. She senses that the time left before impact is very short, but she cannot find a way to measure it.

  Then the airship catches fire. She screams for Aphenglow, but her sister does not respond. She is truly gone, and Arling cannot depend on her for help. She must save herself. She continues to crawl toward the pilot box, but the flames are everywhere and the heat is too intense. She begins to slide backward toward the railing and then the railing disappears and she falls over the side and …

  She is in her mother’s arms. Her mother holds her, cradles her, protects her, and she is safe again. The airship has disappeared and the falling has ended. She lies on soft grasses amid flowers and green plants. Trees canopy overhead, their leafy boughs swaying in a wash of gentle breezes. She stretches out with her head on her mother’s breast and her shoulders in her mother’s lap. She feels comforted and loved, and all of the fear she felt only moments ago has dissipated, replaced with a sense of well-being.

  “Child,” her mother whispers in her ear and rocks her gently.

  “Mother,” she replies, realizing suddenly that something very good has happened and her mother is herself again, no longer the harsh, embittered woman she became when Aphen went away.

  “I have you now,” her mother says. “I have you and will hold you forever. You are mine, and I will never let you go.”

  Arlingfant loves hearing these words; she revels in their sweetness. She lies there and does not move, does not think, does not seek more than to be in the moment in which she finds herself.

  “Dark skies,” her mother whispers. “Stormy weather. Hold tight.”

  The air above them is blackening, the light dying, everything turning gloomy and unfriendly. The trees and grasses and plants disappear. The colors fade. Arling knows they should rise and go inside where it is safe, but she cannot make herself move, cannot make her body respond to her commands, and when she looks up at her mother, her mother is no longer there.

  Again, she has been abandoned.

  “Mother,” she whispers.

  But there is only the darkness and the feel of the earth pressing up against her body, as she lies helpless and alone.

  The dream faded, replaced by darkness and silence. She smelled woods and damp, but she could not make her eyes open or her muscles respond. She was wrapped in what felt like yards of cotton wadding and heavy blankets of softest down. A deep, abiding lethargy infused her. She listened and was surprised to hear very close to where she lay …

  Voices.

  “She cannot be more than a young girl.”

  “She wears knives strapped to her waist; she’s no stranger to combat. Look, there is blood on her clothing.”

  “But she only sleeps. She’s not dead, is she?”

  Hands probe. Fingers explore.

  “She is injured. Perhaps she dies.”

  “We should help her, Sora.”

  “We help ourselves, not strangers. You know that. You speak like a child. What have I told you?”

  The voices faded. Arling waited, but weariness overcame her and she slept anew. This time there were no dreams. When she woke again, the darkness and the lethargy were still there.

  And the voices were back.

  “She should not be left alone.”

  “Others have been here with her. Not that long ago. They will return for her soon enough. We should be gone when they do.”

  “We cannot know if they will return or not, can we? Those who were with her may have abandoned her. They may think her dead. Or even wish her so.”

  “There is nothing to suggest that any of that is true.”

  “Why was she left alone, then? Why does she lie here untended? If they are family or friends, why would they go off and leave her even for a moment’s time?”

  “This isn’t our business!”

  “Helping others is everyone’s business. You sound so cruel when you say such things! Where is your compassion?”

  “I have enough trouble looking after you and me! Stop arguing about this. You know we can’t become involved!”

  A long silence. This time she did manage to open her eyes, if only a little, seeing loose pants tucked in work boots on one, ragged skirt hanging over worn, scuffed half boots on the other.

  Her eyes closed again.

  “Well, I won’t let you leave her like this. We found her, and now she is our responsibility. She should be taken to where she will be looked after. This crash was not her fault. Her injuries were not her doing.”

  Arling tried to speak then, but the words would not come. Instead, she could only manage a low groan, one that sounded frightened and painful even to her.

  “There, you see? She needs us! She is begging for our help!”

  “She said nothing; she made a sound, and it could signify anything.”

  Help me, Arling thought, suddenly afraid that she would be left alone again—that even as her sister and her mother had left her, so, too, would these unknowns who hovered over her. She did not want that to happen. She did not think she could stand to be left alone again.

  Hands touched her once more, this time resting gently across her forehead for long moments before moving away.

  “She has a fever. She needs medicine and rest. Leave her here and you are killing her. Deliberately.”

  “Her companions will look after her.”

  “What companions? Do you see any? Besides, if they were any sort of companions at all, they would be looking after her now.”

  “And if you are wrong about them, and if they come looking for her and find her missing? Then what? They will come looking for us! That might not be so welcome as you seem to think.”

  “You always expect the worst. Try looking at it a different way. What if we save her life?”

  “You ignore reality when you talk that way. You act as if you lack knowledge of the world.”

  “I would rather it be my way than yours.”

  A pause. “It doesn’t matter what you say. We should not involve ourselves. What would you have us do, anyway? I won’t stay here and risk being caught.”

  “No, I don’t suppose so. Something else, then.”

  “There is nothing else!”

  “Don’t just dismiss me like that. Think of something!”

  Arling drifted away again, riding the crest of her lethargy and weariness, returning to darkness and silence. Nothing disturbed her journey. She was buoyed by a deep sense of peacefulness, wrapped in a promise of safety and well-being. She could not determine its source, could not decide from whence it came. But it bore her on through time and held her with the firm gentleness of her mother’s arms and she gave herself over to it.

  When Aphenglow Elessedil woke, not knowing how long she had slept, her first thought was of Arling. She had left her to come to Cymrian, but she had not intended to leave her sister this long. She had not intended to fall asleep. Anything could have happened to Arling in the interim, and it would all be her fault for abandoning her.

  Cymrian was looking at her. “I think I might live,” he said, with a shaky grin.

  She blinked and yawned. “I think you might. How badly do you hur
t?”

  “Hardly at all. Whatever you did, it took away the pain.” His quirky smile surfaced. “You saved me.”

  She blushed in spite of herself, shaking her head. “Not yet, I haven’t. I can still do a little more. I can make you stronger so you can travel.” She sat up. “Here. Give me your hands.”

  He did so, and, conjuring the magic that was needed, she sent an infusion of strength washing through his body, careful not to overdo it, to keep it moderate and controlled so that it would not disrupt the healing that was already under way. When she finished, she looked at him for approval, one eyebrow lifting quizzically.

  “Better,” he agreed. “Much better. I can feel the difference. Amazing. I should be bedridden for weeks, but I think I can even walk.”

  “You’ll have to. I can’t carry you.”

  “No, I wouldn’t expect that.”

  She stood up. “I’m sorry, but there’s no more time. We have to hurry.”

  “Arling?”

  “Sleeping when I came to find you. I found the problem and fixed it. But she’s very weak.”

  He sat up gingerly and flexed his shoulders. “We’ll do whatever we have to for Arling. At least we won’t have to worry about being hunted. Not right away, anyhow.” He nodded toward the bodies surrounding them. “There’s one more farther back—another mutant. Ugly things. Men, once, but something much less now.”

  “Who made these creatures?” she said. “That woman, Edinja Orle?”

  “It’s possible.” He climbed to his feet, testing his weight, looking down at himself as if to make certain he was all in one piece. “I know her. A witch. A member of a powerful Federation family, most of them practitioners of magic. She was one of the candidates for the position of Prime Minister of the Federation Coalition Council when Drust Chazhul got selected as a compromise choice.”