Terry Brooks: Wards of Faerie

She embraced her sister. “Nevertheless, when your service is over I will put your name before the others and make every effort to gain you a place. Don’t you think I would like to have you with me? Don’t you know I miss you?”

Arlingfant hugged her back. “I do know, Aphen. I don’t mean to be unreasonable. But it’s hard sometimes to have to wait so long.”

Aphen laughed. “I know what you mean. Go on to bed, now. I will be up shortly. I just need to go through my notes one more time to be sure I’ve written everything down.”

Her sister kissed her on the cheek, got to her feet, and left the room. Aphenglow listened to the soft pad of her feet on the stairs, the squeak of the bed ropes, and silence.

Then she took out the diary and sat looking at the last entry. Pathke, Meresch, and their Aleia. Very likely a King, his wife, and his daughter. She must find their place in the Elven histories and determine if that might in some way help with her search for the missing Elfstones. Certainly it had happened a long time ago; the Elfstones had been missing since the last war between the Word and Void, in the time of Faerie.

And the city of Rajancroft where the Darkling boy had lived—where was that?

She must find all this out and begin fitting the pieces together. She must ferret out—

A shadow passed by the window on her right, and the thought was left unfinished as her attention shifted immediately. She did not react to the movement—she was trained to do otherwise—but instead closed the diary and slipped it down between the cushions on her left, effectively hiding it from view in a smooth natural movement that wouldn’t be noticed by watching eyes.

She waited a moment, giving herself time to think and her watcher time to reappear at the window.

When nothing happened, she stood up, looking as if she might be ready to retire, but using the act as a way to glance from window to window.

Nothing.

And then a silken cord, its threads strong and tightly wound, slipped about her neck and cut off her air.

Her attacker’s moves were so practiced and smooth that she was certain he had killed this way before. It would have meant the death of many others, and she had only a moment to ensure it would not be hers. She slammed her head backward into his, stomped down on his right ankle, and thrust her elbow back into his rib cage. She had been trained in hand-to-hand combat by no less an authority than the formidable Bombax, and she knew exactly what to do.

The problem was that it seemed to make no difference to her attacker, who barely responded to what would have crippled others.

Pressed close against him as he continued to twist and tighten the cord, she tried to throw him and failed. He was too heavy, too well balanced. Even as tall and strong as she was, she was no match for him. She tried to use his weight against him, to trip him and topple him to the floor. That, too, failed. They were careening about the room like wild things, slamming into the walls, furnishings flying about, tipping over, breaking. Aphenglow possessed defensive skills that made her the equal of anyone, but she was losing this fight. She could feel her strength seeping away and could see spots before her eyes.

Then Arlingfant came tearing down the stairs, screaming like a banshee, a cudgel gripped in both hands. Without slowing, she whacked at her sister’s attacker, catching him on the side of the head with a blow that rocked him just enough for Aphenglow to tear herself free of the killing cord.

But when she turned to engage her attacker, he was already out the door and had vanished into the night. Arling started to give pursuit, but Aphenglow pulled her back, shaking her head.

It took her a moment before she could speak. “Let him go,” she said, gasping for breath. “We don’t want to give him the advantage he seeks by bungling out into the darkness.”

Her attacker was male. Of that she was certain—of his sex if not his Race. She had seen his wrists when he broke away—just a glimpse, but enough to be able to tell by the size and the amount of hair.

She moved over to a bench next to the dining table and lowered herself gingerly. The cord had burned her neck, and her breathing was still ragged. “You saved me, Arling. He was too strong for me. I couldn’t fight him off.”

Her sister bent close, examining her neck. “I hope I bashed his head in,” she muttered. “Sit still. I’ll bring cold cloths and ointment for the burn.”

She moved into the kitchen, and Aphenglow quickly stepped over to the chair, retrieved the diary, and slipped it into her blouse. She was furious with herself for allowing someone to get that close. It shouldn’t have been possible for an attacker to creep up on her like that; her normally dependable instincts should have warned her. That they hadn’t was troubling.

Arlingfant was back, carrying a small, lighted lantern, which she placed on the table next to her sister. Then she proceeded to clean the burns with cold cloths and to apply a pain-relieving ointment. She worked quickly and efficiently, her small fingers smooth and clever.

“Who would do this?” she asked, the anger in her voice undiminished. “Why would anyone attack you in your own home?”

“I don’t know,” Aphenglow lied, already suspecting why, if not who.

“Did they take anything?”

“No. What is there to take? It was probably just someone who doesn’t care for young women leaving their Elven family to join a Druid order. Perhaps someone with a grudge or a perceived hurt.”

“Well, whoever it was will have a sore head in the morning.” Her sister finished with the cleaning and ointments. “He tried to kill you, Aphen!”

“Or scare me. Wanting to send a message of some sort, maybe. We can’t be certain.”

But she was certain. Whoever had attacked her was experienced and skilled. It wasn’t some common person, someone with resentments or a misguided sense of duty. And the nature of the attack suggested her assailant had been trying very hard to injure her badly, not merely scare her.

But who would want to hurt her? Who would benefit from that? She didn’t know. She didn’t have any identifiable enemies and couldn’t think of anyone who carried a grudge of this magnitude. She couldn’t help thinking she had been attacked because of the diary. But who would even know she had it? Who had come close enough to find out?

Only her uncle, Ellich. But her uncle loved her and would never do something like this. So was there someone who would benefit by having her dead and the diary in hand? Someone who had been watching her and saw her take the diary from the archives?

But if she had been seen taking the diary, why not just demand it back? Why try to injure her? Or why not just steal it from her, or try to frighten her into giving it up? Harming her seemed extreme, if getting possession of the diary was the principal goal.

Whatever the case, she was determined to press on. The attack had only strengthened her resolve. She would begin her search of the lineage charts first thing in the morning, just as she had planned.

But she would be keeping careful watch when she did.

When Aphenglow Elessedil woke the following morning, she ached everywhere. Moving slowly and stiffly, she went to the basin, dropped her sleeping shift, and washed herself gingerly. She was a mass of bruises and scratches, and the marks from the cord that had been wound about her neck burned at the slightest touch. She took time to reapply the ointment Arling had used the night before. Then she stretched to relieve the tightness in her body, dressed, and went down to breakfast. She ate standing up at the kitchen counter, staring out the window as the night’s shadows receded and sunrise brightened the eastern sky.