Bloodfire Quest (3 page)

All the dates matched.

By now both Arling and Cymrian had stopped what they were doing and were looking over at her. She started to say something and stopped. Neither one could appreciate what she had just discovered. They did not know of Aleia Omarosian or her diary, or how it had instigated a search for the missing Elfstones. They knew nothing of what the Druids sought and why it was so important—not only to the Druids, but to the whole of the Four Lands. She had kept that secret from them, following the dictates of the Ard Rhys and her own conscience.

To explain it now would require that she reveal the truth of everything that was happening, and that would violate the trust bestowed on her by Khyber Elessedil.

Yet hadn’t these two, who had stuck by her through everything, saving her life, healing her body, and providing reassurance and strength, earned the right to know? If they were to continue to support one another in their efforts, surely it was necessary that she stop keeping the secret of the diary and Aleia and the missing Elfstones and make them both privy to what was at stake.

It all came down to Aleia Omarosian—the first of the Chosen, the original Ellcrys, but also the one responsible for the theft of the missing Elfstones.

Forgiven; embraced; remembered.

She put her questions and doubts aside and forced a smile. “I have something to tell you,” she began.

After she finished telling Arlingfant and Cymrian of her discovery of Aleia Omarosian’s diary and how it had triggered the search for the missing Elfstones and all the attendant consequences—including the attack on Paranor—Aphenglow apologized.

“I should have told you sooner. But I was following the dictates of the Ard Rhys, who made me promise to keep everything a secret, even from you. There wasn’t really a reason to reveal it before. But now there is.”

She gave them the slender logbook that chronicled the names of the Chosen who had transformed into the Ellcrys. Arling went white at the sight of those names, clearly envisioning her own being added to the list, but somehow she managed to tamp down her fear.

“What does all this mean?” she asked.

“There is more to the connection between yourself and Aleia than the fact that both of you served as Chosen. More than that she transformed into the Ellcrys centuries ago and now you are being asked to do the same. It has to do with the fact that she was the first to become the tree, the one who established the Forbidding and locked away the demonkind of Faerie.”

“And what is it?”

Aphen took a deep breath. “After finding the diary, I made it a point to search out the details of the Omarosian family tree. I found a direct connection to the Elessedils. The surnames of the various generations of the two families clearly link them intimately. And those surnames appear again and again in the list of Chosen that appear in the logbook you are holding.”

“Wait a minute!” Cymrian jumped in. His bewilderment was obvious. “Are you saying that this girl and Arling are related?”

“I’m saying more than that. I’m saying that by becoming the first of the Chosen, the original flesh-and-blood Elf transformed by magic to become the tree, Aleia apparently set in place the genetic blueprint for all those who followed in her footsteps. Without checking the lineages thoroughly, I can’t be certain, but what little I’ve seen suggests I am right. I think every new generation of Chosen contained at least one who bore the blood of the Omarosian line—which includes the Elessedils—so that the tree could be assured of a successor should the need arise.”

“The Special Chosen are all a part of the same bloodline?” Arling demanded. “My choosing as a bearer of the seed was preordained?”

“In a sense, yes.”

There was a stunned silence as Arling and Cymrian exchanged a quick, uncertain look.

“But what does this have to do with the missing Elfstones?” Arling pressed. “Aleia and I might both be Chosen, but even if I must …” She paused, the words too bitter to speak. “Even it turns out I must take her path, what does this have to do with the Stones?”

“Does it go beyond the fact that she sacrificed herself to make up for losing the Elfstones to that boy?” Cymrian pressed. “That she became the Ellcrys so her people would be protected?”

“I don’t know,” Aphen admitted. “I’m not sure the two have any connection beyond the fact that Aleia Omarosian was responsible for both.”

In truth, she hadn’t been able to give enough thought to any of this to understand all the ramifications. What she needed to do was to get word to the Ard Rhys and the other Druids so that they could puzzle it through. By now, perhaps, they had found the missing Elfstones and would have answers to these questions. But before going after them, she had to help her sister absorb the immediate impact of what the Ellcrys was demanding of her. What was happening with Arling and the tree that maintained the Forbidding took precedence over everything else.

“Have we searched everywhere we can think of to learn about the transformation of those Chosen who became the Ellcrys?” Cymrian asked.

That was when Aphen remembered Woostra.

“Maybe not,” she answered. She got to her feet quickly. “I want you to finish up here. Keep the Chosen logbook; take it with you. Wait for me back at the cottage.”

Leaving Arling and Cymrian to put away the Chosen records, she raced off to speak with the keeper of the Druid Histories. Perhaps he had encountered something in his years of study of the Druid writings that would help them. Or at least he might know where else they might look.

She found Woostra at the inn where they had agreed he would await her return from her now-aborted search for the Ard Rhys. She knew that if she were too obvious in asking the necessary questions about the Ellcrys and the transformation, she would risk involving Arling, so she decided to approach the matter from another angle, leaving Arling out altogether.

“Aren’t you supposed to be flying west by now?” he asked, setting aside a book as she approached.

She sat next to him, smiling. “Something’s happened, and I’ve decided to delay for a day or two. I had Arling gain access to the records of the Chosen, and I discovered that Aleia Omarosian was not just one of them, but the very first. She was the one who originally agreed to sacrifice herself to create the Ellcrys. She would have done so to help make up for losing the Elfstones and shaming her parents. So I need to know more about the history of the Chosen. I have searched the whole of the Elven records, but there is little on the actual transformation process. Do you think there might be something more on this in the Druid Histories?”

He stared at her. “Are you telling me you want to return to Paranor? After having just barely escaped with your life?”

“I’m telling you I will do whatever is necessary to find a way to help the Ard Rhys.”

He admitted then that there were places in the Histories where the purpose of the Ellcrys was documented. Including, he believed, a description of how to reach the Bloodfire, the magic of which would quicken an Ellcrys seedling and allow the transformation to take place.

“So I’ll have to go there to find out,” she finished.

He snorted. “You mean
we’ll
have to go. It would take you days to find what you needed without me.”

She returned to Arling and Cymrian to tell them what she intended to do. Both would go with her, the latter because an additional pair of hands were needed to fly
Wend-A-Way,
the former because Aphen wanted to keep her close.

“I don’t know what we’ll find,” she hastened to add. “I don’t know if we’ll find anything. But I think we have to try. As things stand, we know almost nothing about what’s needed if we’re to save the Ellcrys.”

“We know it wants Arling to be her successor,” Cymrian pointed out bluntly. “And we know Arling’s not happy about it. How are we going to resolve that?”

“We’ll find a way,” Aphen snapped back, and immediately regretted the sharpness in her tone. “I don’t know,” she added.

They departed the next morning for Paranor, a company of four. Admittedly, there were real concerns about taking Arling away from her Chosen duties. She was conflicted about it herself and had already told them so. But in the end it was agreed she was better off coming with them than being left alone in Arborlon. She would stay aboard ship during the incursions into Paranor and whisked away quickly if threatened.

Aphenglow didn’t attempt to minimize the danger of what she was doing. Getting back into the Druid’s Keep meant circumventing whatever forces the Federation had left behind to guard it and then, once that was accomplished, eluding or banishing altogether the dark magic she had released from the Keep’s lower reaches. It was a formidable challenge under the best of circumstances, but she couldn’t convince herself that delaying the attempt until she had found the Ard Rhys and the others and brought them back into the Midlands was a good idea, either. There were too many variables that might prevent this, and just knowing the location of the Bloodfire was crucial. It might not be Arling who ended up making the journey, but whoever went would need to know where to go.

Standing at the railing several hours into their flight, watching the Dragon’s Teeth draw steadily closer, she allowed herself a moment to accept how small their chances of changing Arling’s fate were. There was no record of any Chosen selected to serve as the Ellcrys’s successor having failed to do so. What she might do—what any of them might do—to release Arling from her obligation was impossible to imagine. It was only her love for her sister and her dislike of destinies dictated by factors beyond her control that made her determined to press ahead. She knew this visit to Paranor was ill advised, but Arling was precious to her and terrified of what she was being asked to accept, and Aphenglow would do whatever she could to find another way.

Even risk her life, as she was doing now.

Even give up her life, if it came to it.

She would do anything for Arling.

They brought
Wend-A-Way
in from the north, after sunset, using the deep gloom of the Northland skies to shield their approach. Aphen knew of a clearing within a mile of the Keep, well back from where they might be spotted in the darkness, and they set the airship down there, within the shelter of the ancient trees of the Forbidden Forest.

The plan was to get back into the Keep by means of the secret tunnels that linked the fortress to the outside. Any direct approach to the walls or gates would almost certainly risk detection. But entering through the underground passageways—while it would risk an encounter with the dark magic Aphenglow had released when they departed—was at least marginally safer. She did not believe the Federation had been able to find a way to penetrate the walls and survive what was now waiting there for them, but that didn’t mean Drust Chazhul and his minions would have stopped looking.

In any case, she was prepared to deal with the magic. After all, she had released it; there was at least a chance it would recognize her and let her pass safely. Whatever the case, only she and Woostra could risk trying to enter the Keep. Theirs was an established presence, and the magic was less likely to attack them. Arling and Cymrian would be viewed as intruders and dispatched without a second thought. Even Woostra was at some risk, she had to admit, given that he was not a Druid. But he insisted on coming, and Aphen knew that without him there to help her, she would be left at a severe disadvantage. She would do her best to keep him safe. She would ward him with magic of her own.

His response was a dismissive snort and a curt insistence that he didn’t need any warding in his own home.

Leaving Arling and Cymrian with the airship, the Druid and the keeper of the records crept through the trees to where the nearest entrance to the tunnels was concealed. By then, they were within a hundred yards of the fortress walls, but still had not encountered anyone at all. Woostra, leading the way, had no trouble finding the trapdoor, but it took him a while to release the hidden locks. Whether due to rust or weather or the tightness of the seals, they refused to budge at first. But eventually, his efforts prevailed and the locks released.

Pulling back on the hatch cover, he led the way inside.

They stood next to each other, searching the gloom. A rack of torches was fastened to the bedrock of the wall, and Aphen and Woostra each removed a pitch-coated brand and ignited it. From there, they wound their way ahead, descending several sets of stairs until they were deep underground and far enough forward of where they had entered that Aphenglow was certain they were beneath the Keep proper.

Woostra stopped. “Do you hear anything?”

She shook her head.

“Good. But keep listening, anyway.”

“I sense something, though.”

He looked at her. “What is it?”

“I don’t know.”

They stayed where they were awhile longer as Aphen struggled to decide what her instincts were telling her.

“We’d better keep going,” she said finally.

Not long after, they reached an ancient iron door set into the rock with pins and metal plates, its surface overgrown with mold and crawling with insects, its metal dulled and rusted. She brushed off the handle, seized it with both hands, and twisted hard.

Nothing.

She looked at Woostra. “What’s wrong?”

“There are locks in the plates above and below the handles,” he told her, peering closely at the door. “A combination of touches to the pins releases them. Here, let me try.”

Moving ahead of her, he worked the pins in a particular sequence, then seized the handle and twisted. The locks released at once, and the door opened.

He gave her a look, cocking one eyebrow. “It’s all in the wrists.”