“Did you know this was here?” Aphen asked in surprise as they started across. “You did, didn’t you?”
He shrugged. “I know the Westland pretty well.”
“Where are we going, then?”
“A town called Marchand, just a few miles ahead. We should be able to find what we need there.”
They continued on, and although she was drained to the point of exhaustion, Aphen kept going. It couldn’t be any better for Cymrian, who had fought a fierce battle that would have killed most men only hours earlier. And if he wasn’t complaining, then she certainly wouldn’t.
It took them less than an hour to reach Marchand—a bedraggled little village of huts and cottages occupied mostly by farmers and herdsmen, situated at the edge of the Tirfing astride a tributary of the Mermidon. Cymrian took her through the village and down to a stable at the north end, where he made a bargain with the owner to purchase two horses. He looked them over first, inspecting hooves, mouths, and withers, and added in saddles and bridles before paying. Where he had gotten the coin, or even why he had it on him, was something Aphen didn’t need to ask. It didn’t matter so long as it was there and served the purpose.
They were about to leave when Aphen pointed to Cymrian. There was blood all over his clothes, and they were badly torn. Cymrian hadn’t even noticed. And Aphen wasn’t looking much better, as the Elven Hunter pointed out. He talked the stableman out of two cloaks hanging on a rack. The man handed them over without a word.
It was late in the day by now, but Aphen did not want to stop to sleep. She wanted to leave at once. And after a bit of an argument and a little foot dragging, Cymrian agreed.
So they rode through the night, traveling east across the plains in the general direction of the big Southland cities and Arishaig, in particular. Because of what the assassin had said before he died, they expected that Arling would be taken to Edinja Orle. Likely, that meant the Federation vessel would fly to Arishaig, where the Orle family kept its residences and the new Prime Minister would have been installed.
They lasted until after midnight; then it became apparent that neither could go any farther. A combination of exhaustion and accumulated damage had rendered them incapable of continuing without serious risk of further injury. They found a grove of trees where they could shelter themselves and the horses, rolled into the blankets they had added to the tack before leaving Marchand, and fell deeply asleep with barely a word to each other.
Even so, they were awake at sunrise, rested enough to be able to continue and anxious to be off.
“We have to determine where they’ve taken her,” Aphen said as they ate a little of the provisions Cymrian had bought along with the blankets. “I don’t think we can assume anything.”
“You want to use the Elfstones?” he asked.
“I think I have to.”
“It’s a big risk.”
“It’s a necessary risk.”
He didn’t argue the point. He had always been good about that. She brought out the pouch that contained the Stones and dumped them into her palm. They glittered brightly, even in the dim morning light. She studied the talismans for a moment, remembering how she had managed to use them to seek out the missing Elfstones, and then began thinking of Arling. She took her time, picturing her sister’s face until the image burned in front of her, and then she brought the magic into her hands in a roiling blue light and sent it flying away.
It was a reassuringly familiar experience. The light exploded into the hazy morning, spearing through shadows and gloom, covering miles in seconds, all across the width of the Tirfing to the walls of a giant city—one much bigger than Arborlon. The light vaulted the city walls and arrowed down wide boulevards, angling off into smaller streets and narrow alleyways, all the while burrowing deeper and deeper into the city’s core.
Finally, the light reached a black tower that soared above the buildings around it, intimidating in both size and appearance. Stark walls of blackened stone were buttressed with parapets and iron railings and gargoyles looking down on those bold enough to pass beneath, their expressions hungry, as if searching for victims.
The light entered the building and wormed its way to a bedchamber where Arling Elessedil lay sleeping in white sheets and warm blankets, to all appearances safe and secure.
Then the light flashed once and died away.
Aphen and Cymrian stared at each other. “She looks to be all right,” Aphen ventured, “but where is she?”
“She’s in Arishaig.” Cymrian shook his head doubtfully. “I think maybe Edinja has her tucked away in that tower. You’re right; she doesn’t appear to have been harmed. But that doesn’t mean she’s safe.”
“Do you think something might happen to her before we reach her?”
“I think no Elf is particularly safe in that city. Especially a young girl in the hands of Edinja Orle.”