They ate their dinner seated about the campfire, the sun going down and night’s darkness sliding in to take its place. The skies were clear and bright with stars, and the forest about them was still. They spoke in low voices so as not to disturb the silence, speaking of small, unimportant things. There was no need to talk about what was going to happen on the morrow; what they needed now was to reaffirm the sense of closeness and confidence they had in each other. Talking made them feel better. It helped to chase back fears and doubts; it helped to instill in them a welcome sense of peace.
Yet still, Aphen dreamed of home and of strange images of the Ellcrys tree, its silver branches reaching for her, its scarlet leaves shimmering. She was trying to leave the gardens, to turn away from the tree, but she could not manage it. She struggled as the branches closed around her arms and then abruptly began to change into fingers and hands and arms. The tree became a girl, and the girl became Arlingfant, and she was begging Aphen to stay with her, to keep her company for all time—holding her fast, refusing to let her go, even after she panicked and screamed and was enclosed in an impenetrable black haze …
When she woke, she did not mention the dream to her sister. The day was cloudy and gray as they ate a small breakfast, and Aphen said little as they ate, thinking instead of what they were doing and what it would mean when they were done. She still hadn’t given up hope that a way might be found to absolve Arling from responsibility for the rebirth of the Ellcrys, although by now she had come to see that her hopes were growing dim and Arling’s chances small.
Impulsively, after they finished their meal and began to dispose of its leavings, she went over to her sister and hugged her close, saying softly in her ear, “I love you, little girl.”
The first drops of rain were just beginning to fall as Aphen stood in the center of the clearing with the Elfstones nestled in her hand. She used the images of fire burning underground in rock surroundings and of an arm extending the Ellcrys seed toward the flames to trigger the magic’s release. The response from the Stones was immediate. Sudden brightness surged through the cracks between her fingers with an unexpectedly sharp flaring of blue light—one that caused her makeshift image to shatter instantly and then vanish. In the dark emptiness left, the Elfstone magic formed into a tight line and raced southward through the heavy forests of the Wilderun, carrying Aphenglow with it. Curving through miles of ancient trees and vast patches of grasses and scrub, over fallen logs and broken branches, and across steams and ponds, it continued until it reached the edge of the Hollows and the spindled pinnacle of Spire’s Reach.
Aphen had studied these landmarks on her maps after reading the Druid Histories that revealed the Wilderun as the source of the Bloodfire, so she recognized what she was looking at, even without yet knowing exactly where the magic was taking her.
Where it took her was down into the murky forested depths of the Hollows to the base of Spire’s Reach. An opening in the rock revealed the entrance to a cave, and within that was a maze of tunnels, winding this way and that, crisscrossing and dead-ending all through the riven rock of the tower, until at last she found herself at a set of stairs surrounded not by cavern rock but by stone blocks shaped and set in place by mortal hands. The stairs descended hundreds of feet deeper into the earth, ending at a massive cavern opening. Huge columns braced the ceiling and stone benches, some whole, some broken, spread outward like ripples in a lake from a broad platform positioned at the exact center of the chamber.
Aphen thought the vision would end here, but it didn’t. Instead, the blue light continued on across the room to a huge stone door that stood ajar, and beyond to yet another set of stairs leading farther down.
This time her downward journey ended much more quickly, and the light revealed a fresh passageway, leading to a second great cavern. This one was not constructed of stone blocks and columns, but carved out of the earth by nature and time, its walls and ceiling and floors ragged and broken and cracked. Sweeping across the floor of this chamber, the light illuminated a wall of huge boulders and shattered rock.
At its center, a portal formed of glass glistened in the magic’s bright light, flat and perfectly centered on an opening.
Then the vision was gone.
Aphen took a moment to lower her hand and slip the Elfstones back into their pouch.
“I saw nothing of hidden dangers,” Cymrian announced. His white hair glistened with rain, and his face was water-streaked. “Did you?”
She shook her head. “Which doesn’t mean there aren’t any.”
“Why would anyone make a door out of glass in a cavern deep underground?” Arling wanted to know, looking from one to the other. “What would be the point?”
Aphen didn’t know. “Perhaps this is another instance of us not recognizing what we’re being shown. Like with the waterfall in the Fangs that turned out to be only a screen of light.” She felt uneasy just talking about it, but hid her discomfort with a smile. “Shall we find out?”