Terry Brooks: Bloodfire Quest

Then, abruptly, she remembered Aphenglow. She needed her sister—the one person who had always been able to make things right.

But Aphenglow was leaving for the deep Westland, off on her expedition with Cymrian to find the other Druids and to tell them what had become of abandoned Paranor, following the Federation attack, and of poor Bombax.

Had she already departed?

Changing directions in midstride, Arling turned toward the airfield, fighting down the panic surging through her, her face streaked with tears, her breathing ragged. Don’t let this be! Don’t make it so! She darted through the trees—a slight, almost ephemeral figure in the growing light of dawn—taking paths and byways that shaved seconds off the time required to reach her sister.

Aphen! Please be there, please!

Then she burst onto the grassy flats where the airships were anchored, their dark hulls glistening with early-morning dew—great tethered birds hovering in the windless morning light, their sleek curved shadows cast earthward. She gasped in relief as she caught sight of Wend-A-Way, her mooring lines still fastened in place.

“Aphen!” she screamed, closing the distance as swiftly as she could, desperation providing her with fresh strength.

Then her sister was running to meet her, flying across the open fields beneath the canopy of airship hulls, tall and strong and safe. Arling threw herself against Aphen, crying out her name, her face buried in Aphen’s shoulder.

“She’s dying, Aphen, she’s dying, and she wants me to take her place and I can’t do it, Aphen, I can’t!”

Arling sank to the grass, pulling Aphen down with her. Aphen held her sister close, soothing her. Hushing her, saying it was all right, that she was safe.

Arling drew back, her face stricken. “She touched me on the shoulder with her branches and spoke to me. She said she had need of me. She said …”

It all poured out of her, a jumble of words riven with emotions that she could barely control, all of it released in a torrent of need and despair.

“Arling, stop now,” her sister said at last, taking her firmly by the shoulders and turning her so that they faced each other again. “I understand. But we don’t know enough yet to be certain of anything. There are Chosen records of the history of the Ellcrys and those who have served her. We should look at those, read what has been written of their history.”

Arling shook her head in denial. “What difference will that make? I know what she expects of me. I heard her speak the words.”

“And then you fled, right in the middle of her explanation.” Aphenglow pulled her close, hugging her anew. “You need to go back to her. You need to hear the rest. But before you do that, we’ll read the records of the Chosen. We may find something of value that will turn things around. Stop crying. I am here with you. I won’t leave you to face this alone.”

Cymrian appeared, rushing up. “What’s happened? I didn’t even realize Arling was here.” He knelt beside them, his eyes finding Arling’s. “What’s wrong? Tell me what it is.”

But it was Aphen who repeated the story, keeping alive the possibility of more than one interpretation of the Ellcrys’s words. Cymrian listened without interrupting, his eyes never leaving Arling.

Then he reached out and took her from Aphen, and held her against him. “Do not fear, Arling,” he whispered. “I will be your protector now. I will stand with you as I have with Aphen, and I will give up my life before I let anything hurt you.”

Arling shook her head. “But you were leaving to find the Ard Rhys. Both of you. You can’t stay because of me. Finding the Druids and telling them of Paranor’s fate—”

“—can wait,” Aphen finished. “What matters now is discovering what is needed to help you, and what can be done about the Ellcrys. If she is truly dying, then we face a far more important task than seeking the missing Elfstones.”

Cymrian nodded, his features somber. “If the Ellcrys fails, it doesn’t matter whether or not we find them.”

Arling looked from one to the other. She had ceased crying, and her wilder emotions had quieted. She felt better having reached her sister and Cymrian. Maybe Aphen was right and things would turn out differently than she had feared when she fled the Ellcrys. She experienced a momentary shame for having acted so foolishly, for responding in such a childish way.

“Thank you both,” she said to them.

“We will face this together,” Aphen assured her. “Starting right now.”

Aphenglow Elessedil was aching.

She kept it hidden inside, not allowing even the smallest hint of what she was feeling to escape, but that didn’t make it go away. She was going to lose her sister to a twist of fate she could not in all likelihood change. For reasons she could only pretend to understand, the dying Ellcrys had chosen Arling—out of more than a dozen who served her—to take her place.

She hadn’t stopped to question that this might not be true. She didn’t take time to go into the details to be certain of their accuracy. All she knew was that Arling felt as if her heart had been ripped to pieces and would never heal. She could see the terror and despair reflected in her sister’s eyes; she could hear it in her voice as she gasped out her story.

Casting every other consideration aside, almost without thinking about it, she responded in an old and familiar fashion, bringing order to the chaos of the moment. Making clear that there was always a way to work things out. Suggesting a plan to start things moving. Staying calm and steady, containing the screams of rage and frustration she wanted to give vent to. She comforted her sister and told her what she needed to hear.

That she was there for her and would not leave.

That she would help her find a way through this darkness.

That she would comfort and protect her against any harm.

It was what Arlingfant needed to know, what she could depend upon Aphen to provide. Reason and discussion and hard decisions could wait until another time. For now all that mattered was helping Arling regain her balance so that she would not be mired in a fear so paralyzing, she could do nothing.

Together they departed the airfield, heading toward the cottage that housed the records and, from time to time, a handful of the Chosen themselves who had moved to Arborlon for the duration of their service. Aphen kept her arm around her sister as they walked, telling her that everything would be all right, that once they had explored the Chosen history and had examined accounts of the actual rebirth, they would better understand what needed doing. She spoke softly and with as much reassurance as she could muster—all the while feeling herself dying inside.

She had already lost Bombax. She had watched the rest of her order fly off in search of a myth and not return. Her mother had abandoned her years ago. All she had left was Arling, and now she might lose her sister, as well.

She could not bear it. And yet she knew she must.

Cymrian walked closely behind them. “We must tell no one of this,” he said quietly, his eyes scanning the woods as though word might already have leaked out.

Aphen glanced over. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you are already being hunted by someone who doesn’t like what you are doing. Three times now they have attacked you. I think it would be wise to assume they might move against Arling if they get even a whiff of what she was told by the Ellcrys.”

Aphen gave him a look.

“It’s about perception, not reality. We need to keep this to ourselves until we know more.” He shrugged. “And if we need to tell someone then, we’ll think carefully about who it might be.”