He turned away and watched his sister maneuver the balloon, directing bursts of hot air into the bag and vents, opening and closing flaps to change direction, pausing every so often to study their movement and gauge the thrust of the wind. It was tricky business, but she seemed at ease with it. He was struck by how steady and assured she was in her handling of the balloon, how confident in the making of her choices. He admired Sim greatly, his big sister, beautiful and clever and skilled at so many things. He wished he were that way, but he knew he wasn’t. He was a Chosen, and that gave him what status he enjoyed among the Elves, but he would never be as accomplished as Simralin.
The best he could do with his life was to see that he did not fail the Ellcrys in the charge she had given him. He thought for the first time since gaining possession of the Loden what that meant. By using the Elfstone magic, he would be taking responsibility for the tree, his city, and the Elven people. Their safety and security would become his responsibility until they got to wherever it was they were supposed to go. Others would help him, his sister included. But in the end, as both the Ellcrys and the shade of Pancea Rolt Gotrin had warned, he would be alone in this. The burden and the consequences of how well he bore it were his. His measure would be taken in the days ahead, and he was terrified—thinking of it here and now, suspended in a basket hundreds of feet in the air—that like the air filling this balloon, his own efforts might leak away and he would fall short.
They flew on through the afternoon, riding on the back of the leeward winds down the spine of the mountain chain, sailing over the canyons and flats, the land beneath them become stark and barren once more. Gone were the green meadows of Syrring Rise, gone the fresh smell and taste of the air. Here the air was bitter and fouled, and the earth a lifeless landscape of dirt and rocks. Now and then Kirisin caught sight of movement, but it was always brief and he could never identify its source.
They ate midway through their flight, consuming a little of their dwindling supplies and water as they monitored the balloon’s progress, Kirisin taking his turn at helping when Simralin needed a rest. He found that he could understand a little of why the balloon responded as it did and what was needed to keep it on course.
At one point, Simralin reached out and squeezed his arm. “I think you’ll make a balloon pilot yet, Little K. You’ve got the nose for it.”
He grinned his appreciation of her compliment, but could not help thinking that flying hot-air balloons would not matter to either of them much longer.
Wondering, at the same time, what would.
IT WAS LATE IN THE AFTERNOON when they reached the banks of Redonnelin Deep and began tacking upriver toward their destination.
“Is that a good idea, Sim?” Kirisin asked when he heard what she had planned for Angel.
“Taking her to Larkin Quill? Of course it’s a good idea.” She waved him off dismissively; her eyes were fixed on the landscape below, watching the slow passing of the river and its confining banks. She took a moment to glance northward in the direction from which they had come. “Storm looks to be coming down this way. It’s not staying on the mountains like it should. Odd.”
“But he’s blind!” Kirisin persisted. “You said yourself that she needed someone with special healing skills if she was to be helped!”
His sister gave him a sharp look. “You don’t think Larkin knows something about healing? After living out here on his own all these years? He knows more than most about how to cure your ills and mend your wounds. He will know just what Angel needs and he will be able to provide it. Don’t underestimate him, Little K.”
Kirisin nodded. “I just don’t want anything to happen to her.”
“It won’t. Larkin is a skilled healer, but he is also one of the few people we can trust. If we take Angel back to the Cintra, we risk giving her over to the King. Here she’ll be safe from whatever happens back there. Larkin will tell her where we’ve gone and what we’re doing. If we succeed, we can come back for her. If we don’t, maybe she can come for us. Take hold of this line. I don’t like what these winds are doing to us. We have to set down.”
They worked together to land the balloon on flats not too far upriver but on the opposite bank from where Larkin Quill kept his cottage. It took both of them to navigate the tricky winds that blew down the river channel, but in the end they succeeded in landing the basket safely and with only a slight bump as it tipped sideways. Simralin leapt out at once and began gathering in the deflated balloon while Kirisin struggled to anchor the basket so that it would not drag farther.
It was almost dark by the time they finished. After they had hauled the basket and the equipment back into a stand of trees and carried Angel to an overhang of rocks that jutted out from the cliff face, Simralin extracted a strange flute-like object, placed it to her lips, and blew hard. The sound was high and piercing, and Kirisin winced despite himself.
“Larkin will come at dawn and take Angel back with him,” she told him, returning to sit beside him in the gathering dark. “It would have been better to put down on the south bank, but too risky with the storm coming in and the winds blowing so hard.”