Terry Brooks - The Gypsy Morph

He turned away, put one hand on the gunwale of his boat, and vaulted aboard effortlessly. “Not so old, you see?” he offered, turning back to them. “But I could use a push off the rocks.”

Simralin obliged, putting her shoulder against the bow and shoving until the boat slid free. Larkin Quill was already at the helm, the sails raised and billowing with the fresh breeze. “I’ll see you on the new wind,” he called back to them as he leaned into the rudder and the boat began to turn away.

“Good–bye, Larkin,” Simralin shouted.

Kirisin called out to him, as well, something about seeing him again soon. But he could not shake the feeling that they were all wishing for something that would never happen.

SIMRALIN WAITED until the boat carrying Larkin Quill and Angel Perez was well out on the water and heading for the far shore before turning to the task of reinflating the hot–air balloon so that Kirisin and she could set out for the Cintra. Kirisin, who had been cleaning up the campsite, packing away their foodstuffs and supplies, was glad to begin preparations for setting out. Movement helped ease his discomfort with leaving Angel behind, focusing his thoughts to the particulars of what was needed to get under way.

It took them less than an hour to set up the balloon, fill the bag, load their supplies, and cast off. The day remained bright and welcoming as they lifted into the sky, empty of clouds and filled with sunshine. Kirisin glanced down several times to see if he could spy Larkin Quill’s boat, but it had disappeared somewhere along the far bank, back in the heavy trees and the inlets, safely out of sight.

Good luck, Angel, he mouthed silently.

He glanced over to see Simralin watching him, and he blushed despite himself.

They sailed across Redonnelin Deep and the beginning of the Cintra Mountains, reaching the northern edge of the chain by midday. Kirisin expected them to continue on immediately, but Simralin told him they were taking the balloon down again and anchoring where they were until dark.

“Can’t risk traveling farther south in the daylight,” she said as they worked together to leak the air from the bag and land the balloon in a meadow at the foot of the mountains. “We’re too easy to spot up there against the sky. They might not know who we are, but they will be quick to want to find out. They can track our silhouette and be waiting when we land. At night, we won’t be so visible.”

Kirisin had to agree, even though he wanted to set off right away. Delays of any sort at this point were frustrating. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he helped her land the balloon, pull in the deflated bag, and anchor the basket. Then he offered to keep watch so that she could sleep for a few hours.

“Much appreciated, Little K,” she told him, yawned, stretched out, and went right to sleep.

He watched her for a time, smiling inwardly at how quickly she could make the transition. Then his attention wandered to the countryside surrounding them, bleak and withered and dominated by the barren craggy peaks of the mountains. Having just left a mountain so different from these, a mountain on which trees and grasses and flowers still grew in lush profusion, green and fresh and thriving, he was dismayed anew at the devastation that had taken hold of his world. No number of Elves could change this, he thought darkly. The sickness and rot were too pervasive and deep–seeded. It made him angry all over again at the humans who had been so careless with their caretaking, at their failure to act more quickly and reasonably when they still had a chance to stem the tide. But he guessed they hadn’t been any more successful at saving themselves, and the price exacted for their foolish inattention was far greater than he would have wished on them.

Except that the Elves were paying the same price. Every living thing was paying it. When a massive failure to preserve the integrity of an ecosystem occurred, no one escaped the consequences.

The hours slipped by. Simralin slept, her breathing deep and even. Kirisin pondered the world’s destiny along with his own, and after a time drifted into memories of Erisha. He found himself wishing he could see her once more, to tell her how much knowing her had meant to him and how sorry he was that he couldn’t have done more to protect her. He thought about how they had played together growing up, in a time when everything happening now would have seemed impossible. It still seemed impossible. Erisha dead. Simralin and himself fugitives. Culph a demon that had betrayed them all.

He was particularly bitter about the old man. He could see his face, smiling and reassuring. He could hear his voice, could feel it make him want to shake his head in blind agreement. He hated that he had thought Culph was his friend, but he hated even more that he had liked him. Nothing would ever change the sense of outrage he felt at knowing how badly he had been deceived. He would live with that memory until he died. It might even go with him to wherever he went afterward.

The recognition burned like fire, and he tamped it down and shoved it away. In the aftermath of its fading, he found himself staring off into middle space, seeing nothing but the past, and then seeing nothing at all. His thoughts wandered like children lost, seeking peace and comfort in the presence of the familiar.

His thoughts strayed, and without thinking about it or even wanting it he followed after.

Who told you that?

The voice whispered through the darkness, sharp and accusatory. He looked around and found himself in the stone gardens of the Ashenell. Massive sepulchres and blocky vaults cast their shadows over a forest of smaller markers. The night was quiet, a shroud over the graves of the dead. Yet a voice had spoken to him.

He saw Erisha then, standing less than ten feet away, her clothing torn and bloodied, her slender white throat sliced open to the bone. She stood solitary and ethereal in death, cast out into the Void by the loss of her life. She looked at him and tried to speak, but no words came.

Erisha, he said. I’m sorry.

She tried again to speak, and again she failed.

Who told you that?

The voice again. Not her voice, but another’s. He searched for the speaker and found him standing close to the girl. Old Culph, his grizzled face and gnarled body unchanged from life. Yet he was a ghost, too. The boy could see it in the translucence that radiated from him, in the way the starlight shone through him.

He could see it in the silhouette of his bones through his skin.

The old man was grinning, his lips curled in disdain, his sharp old eyes fixed and staring.

Who told you that?

Kirisin did not understand. Told him what? What was the old man talking about? The demon, he corrected. What was the demon saying?

He looked again at Erisha, who did not seem to see the demon. She was speaking once more, but still no words would come. Her mouth opened and closed, and there were tears in her eyes.

Then a third figure appeared, cloaked and hooded, dark and forbidding, hovering back in the deep shadows at the edge of his vision. A wraith, perhaps. But no, not this one. This one was alive, was of flesh and blood. It stared at him from out of the folds of the hood, and while he could not make out its features, he could feel its gaze.

Kirisin started toward it, and the ground seemed to give way beneath his feet. Suddenly he was falling, pitching forward into blackness, leaving Erisha and Culph and the Ashenell behind.

Only the dark figure stayed with him, one hand reaching. Its voice hissed in warning.

Who told you that?

Kirisin’S EYES SNAPPED OPEN, and his slumped body jerked upright. He had been dreaming. Daydreaming perhaps, but maybe something more, something deeper. A vision? He couldn’t be sure. He wet his lips and stared out into the sun–drenched day. How much time had passed? Only moments, it seemed. But then he looked at the sky and saw that the sun had moved far to the west. He had been sleeping or daydreaming or whatever it was for hours.