Still, there was nothing to be done about it. He had saved their lives, and so there could be no regrets now about how he had accomplished it. Nor was there any point in worrying about healing himself until he found Railing again. All he could do was keep going and remember what was at stake.
He clutched the box with the Elfstones to his chest, aware of the irony implicit in doing so. Even though their magic had damaged him, he held on to that box as if he would never let it go. Only the crimson stones were elsewhere, still shoved down inside his pant pocket. He had thought many times to return them to their designated space, but each time he started to do so he changed his mind.
Because beneath his fear of what it meant to use them again was another fear, one that was even more overpowering.
If he did not have them, he could not protect himself or his companions. If he did not have them, they could still all be killed. Or they could be imprisoned, as he had been before. They could be caged and left to die. He would never see his brother or his mother or Mirai or any of his friends again.
He could hardly bear even to think on it.
They walked for hours through the gloom and emptiness, searching for a town or a village where they might find an airship. Walking was too slow and wearing. They were already close to exhaustion. Redden in particular, but even Tesla Dart, who never seemed to tire, was showing signs of weariness. She no longer darted ahead or scurried about like a bug. She mostly stayed next to her companions, her wizened face taut, her eyes searching everywhere at once. In part, Redden thought, it was the effect of the land—an unfamiliar place to which she was not yet accustomed. She was more cautious, less certain of herself, more inclined to hang back and stay watchful.
Oriantha set the pace, the Ulk Bog matched it, and the boy did the best he could to keep up, even when what he wanted most was to sleep.
When they finally stopped to rest, sometime much deeper into the night—the blackness still vast and complete and the countryside still a vague and shadowy place all about them—he felt like he might never be able to rise again.
“You look terrible,” Oriantha noted, bending close to study his face.
He shook his head. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
“You might be tired, but you are not fine. Something is wrong. It’s using the Elfstones like you did, isn’t it? That did something to you.”
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Tesla Dart moved over as well, looking interested.
“You used them when you shouldn’t have,” the shape-shifter declared, not accusatorily, but in sympathy. “Only an Elf is supposed to use them, and you are not an Elf. You are of mixed blood, and the magic doesn’t work for you like it would for a full-blooded Elf. Am I right?”
“I suppose so. But it’s not as if anything can be done about it now. It’s over and done with.”
“But it hurts?” Tesla asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t feel right, but I think it will pass. I just have to give it time.”
“Meanwhile,” Oriantha said, “give me that.”
She took the case with the Elfstones out of his hands before he could think to tighten his grip. “Hey!” he protested.
“I can carry them as easily as you. There is no immediate need for them. You need to conserve your strength. Let me keep the case for now. You can have it back again in Arborlon.”
He started to object and then decided against it. What was the point? She was right to think that relieving him of the case would help.
“We should start walking again,” Oriantha said abruptly, rising.
They set out once more, Oriantha taking the lead and carrying the case with the Elfstones, Tesla Dart close behind her, and Redden trailing. He thought Oriantha was right, and the effects of using the Elfstone magic were not a consequence of using it with the wishsong, but rather using it at all. He knew from his family’s history that only Elves could use Elven magic safely. Having some Elven blood was not enough to protect him. It was Wil Ohmsford’s use of Elfstone magic centuries earlier that had brought about a change in his genetic makeup, resulting in the birth of the wishsong in his children and in the generations thereafter, right down to today. It was not so difficult to think that maybe his own use was causing similar changes within him, changes that would not manifest themselves until he had children of his own.
History repeating itself, he thought. Lessons learned long ago so often needed to be learned all over again in the present. It might true here, and he might be the student who was being taught.
But he did not dwell on it, putting the matter aside and thinking instead of Railing and home, of Mirai and Sarys, of better days behind and more ahead. This would be ended soon, the Straken Lord defeated and sent back into the Forbidding and his old life restored. Things would return to how they had been.
Just so long as he didn’t think about those who had died inside the Forbidding.
Or forget that the Druid order was decimated.
Or assume that Railing would be waiting for him, safe and whole.