Terry Brooks - Witch Wraith

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.”

Rushlin whistled. “That’s Edinja Orle’s residence. Why don’t you just find a cliff and jump off and be done with it? Word is, no one who goes into that building uninvited ever comes out again.”

Aphen gave him a look. “My sister is in there.”

He shrugged and smiled. “Then you can be the exception that disproves the rule, I guess.” He glanced over at Cymrian. “Are you sure about this?”

“If you can point out the building and tell us a way to get inside. Or even if you can’t.”

Rushlin nodded, his features crinkling. “Like that, is it?” He gave them a conspiratorial grin. “Hope it doesn’t lead to tragedy. I’ll need today to find out what I can about possible ways to get you in. Getting out will be up to you.”

He stood, and they did the same. “Come back a few hours before nightfall. You won’t want to try entering that place until dark anyway. Find something to do. Take a carriage ride in Federation Square. Visit the museum of culture; that’s always good for a laugh. Go be a tourist. See the sights.”

He led them to the door and ushered them out. “But stay away from all things Edinja until you come back here. What you’re trying to do will require that you stay in one piece. At least going in.”

He closed the door with a small wave, leaving Aphen and Cymrian staring at each other.

Arling Elessedil was wrapped in a warm cocoon of sheets and blankets and near darkness, and it took her a long time to decide that she needed to open her eyes and look around—and that was only after what felt to be an endless sleep. She experimented first with moving her fingers and toes, arms and legs, and finally her head from right to left before taking the plunge. She could feel small twinges in her body—especially her back—from injuries she knew she had suffered when the Wend-A-Way had exploded into flames and fallen into Drey Wood. But she could also tell that her wounds had been treated and were healing beneath the bandages wrapped about her body.

When her eyes overcame gravity and drowsiness sufficiently for her to open them, she found herself in a beautifully furnished bedroom with drapes pulled tightly across the windows to keep out the light. The stone-block walls were whitewashed and layered with colorful tapestries and large paintings. Everything was very quiet—so quiet she could hear the sound of her own breathing. She lay motionless and expectant, cautious in this strange place, using her senses to see if she could detect another’s presence while taking everything in with slow, methodical care.

But she was alone.

She thought back to the crash that led to this moment, remembering the explosion, the flames, the feeling of the ship tumbling earthward, and the terrible certainty that she was going to die. She remembered seeing Aphen clinging to the back railing where she had fallen away after using her magic against the Federation warship. She remembered Cymrian close to her.

After that, it was all a collection of snippets and glimpses. She remembered nothing of the actual crash. What she recalled next was the sound of Aphen’s voice and the feeling of sharp pain as objects were removed from her body and wounds were closed. She was weak and disoriented, and she couldn’t tell if she was dying or not. She went in and out of deep slumber and a dark interior seclusion, where she hid and waited for a reason to emerge. Two pairs of boots came and went, worn by people whose voices she heard but whose faces she did not see. Hands lifted her and she was placed in a wagon that bore her away, wheels creaking and traces jingling.

Then she was in darkness aboard an airship; she remembered the rocking motion and the sounds and smells of the wood and iron. People came and went, but no one spoke to her or touched her. She was alone then for what seemed on reflection to have been a very long time.

Now she was here, in this bedroom, and she had no recollection at all of how she had gotten here, how much time had passed, or even where she was.

She wondered what had become of Aphen and Cymrian. Why weren’t they there with her? Or were they, and she simply hadn’t realized it? But that didn’t feel right. Too many other things had happened where they were not present. She had become separated from them, and she needed to find out why.

Abruptly, she remembered the silver seed the Ellcrys had given her to carry to the Bloodfire. She had concealed it in a leather pouch and strapped the pouch under her cloak. She moved her hands over her damaged body. She was no longer wearing the clothes she had been traveling in when the Wend-A-Way had crashed. She was wearing a nightgown of soft linen.

And the pouch with the precious seed was gone.

She couldn’t believe it. Even though she knew it made perfect sense that it would have been taken with her clothes, she couldn’t accept that it was gone. She searched herself frantically, hands feeling all through the bedcovers and over her body, desperate to find the missing seed.

She went still the instant the door latch released and the door swung open to admit a dark-cloaked figure backlit by the daylight that until now had been shut out of the room.

“Awake at last,” a woman said softly. “I’ve been worried about you. You’ve been asleep for five days.”

She let the door close behind her—as if perhaps she felt more comfortable in the dark—her slight form returning to the shadows. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Arling answered, forcing her hands to move slowly back to her sides. “A little sore.”

The woman stopped at the Elven girl’s bedside, looking down from inside the hood. “You suffered dozens of wounds, but they seem to have been treated by someone who knew what they were doing and are healing nicely. Do you know who treated you?”

Arling almost told her, but something stopped her. “No. I was unconscious. Where am I?”

“You are in my home.” The woman’s voice was warm and welcoming. She pulled back the hood of her cloak to reveal a beautiful, fine-featured face with startling eyes and silver hair. “You were found in Drey Wood by the captain and crew of one of our vessels and brought here. What happened?”