Not that she didn’t appreciate having Cymrian there. Not that she would have wanted it to be any other way.
She watched him move among the other Elves, swift and sure-footed, his white-blond hair plastered against his head in the rain, his clothing already soaked. He seemed tireless to her, impervious to exhaustion and weakness. She marveled that he could always seem so fit and ready when she felt so worn.
As the wind blew with fierce purpose and the rain sheeted in torrents across the decking, she stood at the helm in the darkness and wished again that things could be different.
Arling nudged her arm. “We should put down, Aphen. We’re going to rip apart!”
But Aphenglow shook her head. “She can take it. Wend-A-Way is built to withstand this.”
She said it, but she wasn’t entirely sure it was so. The storm was on top of them now, a monstrous force of nature, and it felt as if every wire and plank and nail were rattling. It was taking everything Aphen had to hold the ship even marginally steady as she jerked and yawed sideways and underwent sudden, breathtaking drops. She found herself wondering how much power was left in the diapson crystals; a storm like this one would drain their power quickly. If they had to try to change out the crystals in this sort of weather, it would be an unbelievably treacherous job.
Arling was clinging to her arm, holding on as if doing so were the only way she could stay safe. Aphen let her, finding fresh strength in her sister’s touch, in the clear sense of dependency. It made her want to wrap Arling in her cloak and shelter her from the world. It made her want to find a way to keep her safe forever from the dark things that were coming to steal her away.
“Aphen!”
Cymrian was beside her suddenly, pressing close to be heard. His face was slicked with rain and drawn with tension. “There’s an airship tracking us. There.”
He pointed beyond the stern of Wend-A-Way into the blackness. Aphen peered into the gloom.
“I don’t see it.”
“Wait for the lightning!”
A second later a jagged streak lit up the sky, and she saw it. A warship, she thought, big and black within the roiling center of the storm. “What do we do about it?”
He gave her a puzzled look. “What do you think? We lose it.”
Stoon realized too late that the Federation warship was overtaking the smaller craft. Sensing the danger, he screamed at the captain to slow her down, and when the captain failed to respond quickly enough, he raced back from the bow to confront the man. But by then the damage was done. The Elves had seen them, and their airship had put on a burst of speed and was flying west toward the cover of the forest.
Raging at the captain for his stupidity, Stoon ordered the warship to give pursuit. They had lost the advantage of surprise, their identity and likely their intent revealed. The best he could hope for now, even after all his care and planning, was to force the other vessel down and make prisoners of her passengers. What the chances were of that, he had no idea. At least, it would give him a chance to see firsthand how effective his hunters were, how obedient to his orders. He almost hoped it would end with all of them dead, Elves and mutants alike. He would risk what that would mean when he returned to Edinja, just to have this business behind him.
But maybe it would all go another way. Maybe the mutants would prove more than a match for the Elven girl. Maybe they would be stronger than her magic. Maybe they would dispatch the crew and overpower her, she could become his prisoner, and he would cart her off to face Edinja in the privacy of her dungeons.
Staying close now to the captain, afraid to leave his side for fear that he would do something else stupid, Stoon searched the blackness ahead, peering through sheets of rain and shifting phantasms of gloom and mist. The edges of the forest loomed, vast and sprawling, just visible as the warship drew close.
Then lightning flashed anew, and the assassin saw everything ahead of them clearly revealed.
The Elven airship was gone.
19