“I need you to do something,” he said to Aphen.
She shifted her gaze from the space the cat had occupied a moment earlier and back again to him. “What?”
“I need you to fake an attempt at escaping. A quick couple of steps should do it.”
“That’s a moor cat, Cymrian! And you can’t even see it!”
“If it comes for you in response, it will have to reveal itself. Moor cats can only vanish like that when they are still.”
She hissed at him, the sound born of rage and frustration. But he ignored her. “Can you do it?”
“It’s you who can’t do it!”
“Yes or no? We don’t have time to argue.”
She took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“Summon your magic. Do what you can to help me.”
She gave in to the obvious necessity of embracing this madness. This would never work, but she understood they needed to do something. Every second lost was precious, and she had no better plan.
She broke for the passage opening, two quick steps. Cinla reappeared as if by magic, several yards away from where she had disappeared, springing at Aphen. But Cymrian was quicker. Blades flashing in both hands, he launched himself across the space separating him from Cinla and threw himself atop the cat. The moor cat half turned in response, claws slashing, jaws yawning wide. Cymrian’s blades disappeared into her thick coat, buried to the hilt. Cinla screamed—a terrible sound that ratcheted through Aphen like an explosion. She was summoning the magic already, bringing it into her fingertips, desperate to help, but it seemed to take forever.
Cymrian had fresh blades in his hands as he lost his grip on the moor cat and rolled under it. There was blood on his clothing, much of it his own, and the moor cat was still tearing at him, teeth now fastened to his shoulder. But Cymrian ignored that. Both blades slammed upward into the moor cat’s throat, plunging through the soft, exposed skin, sliding past the bones of her skull and penetrating her brain. Cinla’s head jerked upward, her killing grip released.
Aphen’s magic struck out at the big animal, hammering into the moor cat and throwing it away from Cymrian. Cinla was thrown backward and slammed into the cavern wall. The moor cat struggled up, the handles of Cymrian’s knives sticking out of her body and jaws like blunt spikes as she lurched toward them. But the blades that had penetrated her brain had done too much damage. Her strength gone, she slumped in mid-stride and did not move again.
Cymrian was on his feet instantly, ragged and bleeding, his upper torso shredded. “Elfstones!” he gasped. “Show me the way!”
Forcing herself to ignore his terrible wounds, Aphen yanked out the Elfstones and summoned their magic. The instant their brilliant light angled down the passageway and up the stairs beyond, the Elven Hunter went racing off. Aphen followed, making certain the Elfstone magic continued to illuminate the path they needed to follow. She did not know how Cymrian managed to find the strength to run as fast as he did; she could not comprehend how he remained upright. By all rights, he should be dead.
She tightened her jaw at the image her words conjured. Not that. Please, not that.
She went after him with fresh resolve, knowing he would need her, wanting to be there for him, aware of what he was doing. Aphen had glimpsed that final look on her sister’s face as she was being dragged from the cavern. Arling was not going to stand for what was being done to her. At some point, she was going to fight back. And she would do so before she was aboard Edinja’s Sprint, where she had to know she would be trussed up and rendered helpless.
Cymrian was already out of sight ahead of her. Aphen was slowed by the effort it took to focus the magic of the Elfstones so that it lit a path through the blackness ahead of her. Without the magic to guide them, relying instead on torches and memory, it would take too long to catch up to Edinja and Arling.
What they would do when they actually found them again was another matter. But apparently Cymrian had already made up his mind.
She found the long flight of stairs and ascended them in frantic leaps and bounds until she reached the maze of tunnels. Bright splashes of Cymrian’s blood dampened the rock surface beneath her feet as she ran. Her breathing was quick and labored, but she refused to slacken her pace. Every so often, she caught sight of the Elven Hunter ahead of her when the passageways straightened enough to reveal his progress. Each time he was a little farther away. She couldn’t believe he could keep this up. The moor cat had torn him open front and back, and he was bleeding heavily. It didn’t seem to matter. He wasn’t slowing down.
He would reach Arling first, Aphen realized. He would have to be the one to save her.
Faster, she urged herself silently. Or maybe she was urging him. Run faster!