Aryal couldn’t focus her eyes properly, but everybody must have nodded, because Quentin passed her gently over to Linwe. The Elf was smaller than she was by several inches, and she slipped easily under one of Aryal’s arms, putting an arm around her waist.
“You lean on me,” Linwe said softly.
“I don’t think I’ve got a choice,” Aryal said.
One of the Elven males came up on her other side. “I’m Caerreth,” he said. “You can lean on me too.”
While she couldn’t see his features very well in the deepening darkness, she would know him again by his scent. He was much taller than Linwe, so she slipped an arm around his waist. “Thanks,” she muttered.
“Don’t mention it,” Caerreth said. “You and Quentin came after us when you found that we were missing. If it weren’t for you, we would still be locked up. Helping is the least we can do.”
Quentin had glided away to go to the cell block door. As he worked to pick the lock, Aryal and her helpers followed more slowly.
“The dampening spell is on this door too,” Quentin said, his voice quiet.
Aryal caught the small, distinct sound of the lock clicking open.
What a useful trait, having your own lock picks on the ends of your fingers. She envied him those. Her talons were too thick, and they were too hard to file into a thinner shape. And she was fairly certain she was a sharper thinker than this usually, but she had lost too much blood and was so light-headed, she was surprised she was still conscious, let alone still stringing thoughts together in a semicoherent fashion.
Someone nudged her, and she came alert with a start. She’d lost a few moments. The cell block door was open. Quentin and Aralorn slipped out, disappearing into even darker shadows.
Quentin appeared again almost immediately. He said, “There’s a stairway. The dampening spell appears to wear off by the time you reach the top. We’ll stop there. Come on.”
Caerreth and Linwe had to carry most of Aryal’s weight up the stairs. She couldn’t hold back a groan as their lifting strained her back. Ahead of them on the stairs, she saw the silhouette of Quentin’s head as he turned to look down at her. But he said nothing, and after a few minutes they had reached the top where Aralorn stood, waiting tensely.
They were in a hallway that stretched in either direction. It was shadowed, cool and quiet, and for the moment free of shadow wolves. That was all Aryal had a chance to see before Linwe and Caerreth eased her down onto the floor.
“She has to be on her stomach,” Quentin told them.
As they eased her over on the flagstone floor, she helped them as much as she was able. Normally so strong, her own weakness filled her with rage.
Someone knelt beside her head. It was Quentin. He put a steady hand at the back of her neck. His hand was warm and bracing. She closed her eyes against how good it felt. He told her softly, “You have to change again. Do it quietly this time, hear?”
She nodded, bracing herself, and reached for the shapeshift.
Usually shapeshifting came so easily, like second nature. This one was brutally hard, taxing her meager resources, and, oh gods, it hurt. She swallowed down a scream and strained. The shift felt chainsaw rough and barely within her reach, but finally with a pained grunt she managed to change over to the harpy.
Her broken wings spilled over onto the floor.
There was a silence, where the only sound was her shallow panting. Quentin stroked the back of her head.
Caerreth whispered, “She needs a hospital.”
“Well, she’s not getting one,” Quentin snarled. He sounded savage. “So pull up your big-boy pants and fix her.”
“I need light for this.”
The younger Elf barely got half the words out of his mouth before a small ball of light snapped into existence. Aryal managed to look over one shoulder. The light hovered just beside her head, and the magic from it felt like Quentin’s Power signature. She coughed out a thready laugh.
“Okay,” said Caerreth. He sounded a little scared. “Thanks.”
Then the Elf set to work, and Aryal sagged from relief as the first cool wave of magic washed over her, blocking the pain. He worked deftly on the various wounds all over her body but hesitated when he reached her wings.
“Um, Aryal,” he said softly. “I can set the broken bones and help them to fuse, but I can’t repair this crushed joint, and if I throw a general healing spell on your wings, it’s going to heal wrong. You won’t be able to bend or flex it.”
Razor teeth fastening … crushed. Torn.
She shook all over. Yeah, you’ve killed me, bitch.
She couldn’t bear to look at her wings again and rested her cheek on the cold floor as she whispered, “Do it.”
Then Quentin appeared in her line of sight. His face was upside down. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her sight.
He had lain down on the floor too, on his stomach, his head turned toward her. His bare wide shoulders looked especially naked against the flagstone floor. He was dirty and haggard, the lines of his face set, but his gaze was the bluest she had ever seen.
Blue like the sky, steady and clear and filled with infinity.
“You should be on watch,” she whispered.
“Aralorn’s on the lookout,” he said. His voice was as steady as his eyes. “And I have fast reflexes. Besides, if the shadow wolves were here, they would have shown up by now. I think they’re with the witch.”
Caerreth muttered instructions to Linwe, who braced her at the shoulders, and she felt strong tugging on her wings as Caerreth set the bones.
Aryal’s face worked, and she clawed at the floor. She wanted to strike at the Elves, to knock them away from what they were doing to her.
Quentin grabbed her hand, gripping it hard. “We already knew you were going to have to have surgery,” he said. “This isn’t news.”
“Leave me alone,” she hissed.
“Like you left me alone these last two years?” His expression was relentless, and his grip tightened to the point of pain. “Like you left me when the wolves attacked? I don’t think so, sunshine.”
Caerreth threw the healing spell. She felt it sink into her, fusing torn flesh and broken bones together. Fusing the joint. Halfway through, she twisted her fingers around and clenched Quentin’s hand.
Dead, dead …
She realized she was whispering it. “… dead. Bitch, you are so dead.”
“That’s right,” Quentin said, his voice pitched low. “We’re going to take her down. She’s a dead woman. She could have asked for whatever the f**k it is that she’s looking for. She could have borrowed it. She didn’t have to lock them up. She didn’t have to do this to you. She made choices.”
The healing spell faded. Caerreth was done, at least with her. “All right, Quentin,” Caerreth said. He sounded shaky. “Now it’s your turn.”
Somehow Aryal pulled out another shapeshift. It helped that her wounds had been closed. They still hurt, along with her wings, but she could tell that the healing had taken root, dispelling whatever had caused the wounds to remain open in the first place.
She forced herself up onto her hands and knees. Linwe ran forward, putting an arm around her to help her get to her feet. Aryal looked down at the ground. Quentin had rolled onto his back and sat up. Caerreth was already working on him.
Aryal looked up at Aralorn, then at Linwe. She could barely stand upright, and the Elves weren’t looking any better. And Caerreth was doing all that healing while he was just as depleted as the others.
She said in a rusty-sounding voice, “We all need food, water and real rest. There’s got to be plenty of food supplies in the palace kitchens. And the safest place to rest is down in the prison cells.”
Quentin lifted his head. Aralorn turned to look at her.
She twitched a shoulder. “Think about it. Bitch tries to come into the cell block, the wolves can’t join her and she can’t use magic. I only hope that happens, because that means we’ve got her. And I really need to get her.”
“Aryal’s right,” Quentin said. “The most dangerous thing will be hunting for the palace kitchens to get food and water. I’ll do that.”
Linwe said, “I’ll go with you.”
“You sure?” Quentin asked. He rolled to his feet as Caerreth finished with him.
Linwe said, “I’m the only one who wasn’t injured. And I can run fast.”
“Okay.”
They watched as Caerreth worked on healing the wounds that Aralorn had. By that point the healer wasn’t looking good. When he finished, Caerreth said, “I’m tapped.”
The young Elf was looking down at himself. That was when Aryal realized he was bandaged too, with defensive wounds on both his forearms. Quentin walked over to him and gripped his arms. “When it comes to healing spells, I’m a one-trick pony,” Quentin said. “Are these wounds simple enough for that?”
Caerreth nodded, and Quentin spelled his arms. Afterward, he looked at Aryal. “You might as well go down below. Linwe and I will join you as soon as we can.”
She nodded dully. “See you soon.”
Her heart and head were pounding, and her mouth was dry. She had pushed past her limit some time ago. She didn’t wait to see Quentin and Linwe slip down the hall. Instead, she eased down the stairs to the cell block, bracing herself with one hand against the wall.
Aralorn and Caerreth followed. “It goes against all of my instincts to walk back in there,” Aralorn muttered. “If something happens to Quentin, and the witch traps us in there, we’re caught again and as good as dead.”
“I know,” Caerreth said tiredly. “But we might take more damage if we stayed at the top of the stairs and got caught there. I think we’ve just got to trust Quentin and Linwe to take care of themselves and get back to us with supplies.”
While Aryal heard them, she didn’t care. All she cared about was going horizontal again as quickly as she could. When they entered the cell block again, she went into Quentin’s cell because hers was too bloody.
A formless noise filled her ears, like that of the ocean. It was odd, because she could have sworn the ocean was on the outside of the cell block window. She made her knees unlock one at a time, and forgot to catch herself, so she fell in a sprawl to the ground.
That was the last thing she knew for a long, dark while.
SIXTEEN
Stalking through the dark, silent halls of the palace’s underbelly was like a video game gone bad. Any moment now Quentin felt like they were going to run into a water trap populated with piranhas, while logs swung to and fro overhead and shadow wolves jumped out of nooks to attack them.
He rubbed his face and forcibly banished the image from his mind. He wasn’t quite as bad off as any of the others, but he needed to get some rest, and soon.
He said to Linwe, “Be sure to memorize the way back in case you need to run it by yourself.”
“Aw, damn it,” she said miserably. “I’m not going to need to.”
He was terrible at dates, birthdays and such, but he thought Linwe had to be around thirty or so, which was quite young for an Elven adult. Making any kind of direct age-to-adulthood correlation to shorter-lived races, such as humankind, didn’t compute, for she had already lived as a responsible adult for several years, yet she still retained the liveliness of youth.
He remembered her as a little girl, with her wide, naughty grin and eyes sparking with some kind of mischief. She had been adorable and adored, and had pretty much run wild in Lirithriel Wood for the first fifteen years of her life. He hadn’t visited the Wood often, but he remembered once she had run up to him with a laugh that was bigger than she was. She must have been all of five years old. When she had reached him, he’d picked her up and swung her high, setting her on his shoulder.
An echo of the burning pain came back in his chest. He couldn’t let anything happen to her. Not her too, on top of all the massive losses the Elves had already suffered. He grabbed her by the arm, hauled her close and hugged her fiercely. After her first twitch of surprise, her arms came around his waist, and she hugged him back so hard her slight body shook with the strain.
He bent his head and said in her ear, “You will run if I tell you to. Do you hear me, young lady?”
“Quentin, that’s not my job …” she said.
“Linwe.” He injected all the command he could into his voice. “You don’t have the magical aptitude for this kind of fight. And you. Will. Run.”
“Fine!”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. He knew he was being overbearing and patronizing, and he didn’t give a shit. They all had to react to stress in their own way. This way was his.
He let her go, and they moved on.
After climbing a few staircases and another fifteen minutes or so of searching, they found the kitchens, which were as large as Quentin had expected. Linwe ran to the water pump over a large basin, and pumped out enough water to immerse her head in. While she drank and splashed water on herself, he located the pantries. He checked to make sure he wasn’t near any windows, then he spelled a small ball of light and began collecting supplies.
The pantry held massive amounts of anything he could have hoped to find: wayfarer bread, nuts, dried fruits, jerky, cured meats and dried fish, wheels of cheese, apples, honey, jars of jellies and jams, olives, pickled vegetables and pickled eel, along with potatoes and other tubers, spices, oil and huge sacks of grains.
One pantry held barrels of wine, barley beer, and bottles of liquor, along with wineskins. Given the size of the palace, there were probably other storerooms full of both wine and the foods that were suitable for long storage, but the contents of these pantries alone would be enough to feed the four of them for a few months.
“You lean on me,” Linwe said softly.
“I don’t think I’ve got a choice,” Aryal said.
One of the Elven males came up on her other side. “I’m Caerreth,” he said. “You can lean on me too.”
While she couldn’t see his features very well in the deepening darkness, she would know him again by his scent. He was much taller than Linwe, so she slipped an arm around his waist. “Thanks,” she muttered.
“Don’t mention it,” Caerreth said. “You and Quentin came after us when you found that we were missing. If it weren’t for you, we would still be locked up. Helping is the least we can do.”
Quentin had glided away to go to the cell block door. As he worked to pick the lock, Aryal and her helpers followed more slowly.
“The dampening spell is on this door too,” Quentin said, his voice quiet.
Aryal caught the small, distinct sound of the lock clicking open.
What a useful trait, having your own lock picks on the ends of your fingers. She envied him those. Her talons were too thick, and they were too hard to file into a thinner shape. And she was fairly certain she was a sharper thinker than this usually, but she had lost too much blood and was so light-headed, she was surprised she was still conscious, let alone still stringing thoughts together in a semicoherent fashion.
Someone nudged her, and she came alert with a start. She’d lost a few moments. The cell block door was open. Quentin and Aralorn slipped out, disappearing into even darker shadows.
Quentin appeared again almost immediately. He said, “There’s a stairway. The dampening spell appears to wear off by the time you reach the top. We’ll stop there. Come on.”
Caerreth and Linwe had to carry most of Aryal’s weight up the stairs. She couldn’t hold back a groan as their lifting strained her back. Ahead of them on the stairs, she saw the silhouette of Quentin’s head as he turned to look down at her. But he said nothing, and after a few minutes they had reached the top where Aralorn stood, waiting tensely.
They were in a hallway that stretched in either direction. It was shadowed, cool and quiet, and for the moment free of shadow wolves. That was all Aryal had a chance to see before Linwe and Caerreth eased her down onto the floor.
“She has to be on her stomach,” Quentin told them.
As they eased her over on the flagstone floor, she helped them as much as she was able. Normally so strong, her own weakness filled her with rage.
Someone knelt beside her head. It was Quentin. He put a steady hand at the back of her neck. His hand was warm and bracing. She closed her eyes against how good it felt. He told her softly, “You have to change again. Do it quietly this time, hear?”
She nodded, bracing herself, and reached for the shapeshift.
Usually shapeshifting came so easily, like second nature. This one was brutally hard, taxing her meager resources, and, oh gods, it hurt. She swallowed down a scream and strained. The shift felt chainsaw rough and barely within her reach, but finally with a pained grunt she managed to change over to the harpy.
Her broken wings spilled over onto the floor.
There was a silence, where the only sound was her shallow panting. Quentin stroked the back of her head.
Caerreth whispered, “She needs a hospital.”
“Well, she’s not getting one,” Quentin snarled. He sounded savage. “So pull up your big-boy pants and fix her.”
“I need light for this.”
The younger Elf barely got half the words out of his mouth before a small ball of light snapped into existence. Aryal managed to look over one shoulder. The light hovered just beside her head, and the magic from it felt like Quentin’s Power signature. She coughed out a thready laugh.
“Okay,” said Caerreth. He sounded a little scared. “Thanks.”
Then the Elf set to work, and Aryal sagged from relief as the first cool wave of magic washed over her, blocking the pain. He worked deftly on the various wounds all over her body but hesitated when he reached her wings.
“Um, Aryal,” he said softly. “I can set the broken bones and help them to fuse, but I can’t repair this crushed joint, and if I throw a general healing spell on your wings, it’s going to heal wrong. You won’t be able to bend or flex it.”
Razor teeth fastening … crushed. Torn.
She shook all over. Yeah, you’ve killed me, bitch.
She couldn’t bear to look at her wings again and rested her cheek on the cold floor as she whispered, “Do it.”
Then Quentin appeared in her line of sight. His face was upside down. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her sight.
He had lain down on the floor too, on his stomach, his head turned toward her. His bare wide shoulders looked especially naked against the flagstone floor. He was dirty and haggard, the lines of his face set, but his gaze was the bluest she had ever seen.
Blue like the sky, steady and clear and filled with infinity.
“You should be on watch,” she whispered.
“Aralorn’s on the lookout,” he said. His voice was as steady as his eyes. “And I have fast reflexes. Besides, if the shadow wolves were here, they would have shown up by now. I think they’re with the witch.”
Caerreth muttered instructions to Linwe, who braced her at the shoulders, and she felt strong tugging on her wings as Caerreth set the bones.
Aryal’s face worked, and she clawed at the floor. She wanted to strike at the Elves, to knock them away from what they were doing to her.
Quentin grabbed her hand, gripping it hard. “We already knew you were going to have to have surgery,” he said. “This isn’t news.”
“Leave me alone,” she hissed.
“Like you left me alone these last two years?” His expression was relentless, and his grip tightened to the point of pain. “Like you left me when the wolves attacked? I don’t think so, sunshine.”
Caerreth threw the healing spell. She felt it sink into her, fusing torn flesh and broken bones together. Fusing the joint. Halfway through, she twisted her fingers around and clenched Quentin’s hand.
Dead, dead …
She realized she was whispering it. “… dead. Bitch, you are so dead.”
“That’s right,” Quentin said, his voice pitched low. “We’re going to take her down. She’s a dead woman. She could have asked for whatever the f**k it is that she’s looking for. She could have borrowed it. She didn’t have to lock them up. She didn’t have to do this to you. She made choices.”
The healing spell faded. Caerreth was done, at least with her. “All right, Quentin,” Caerreth said. He sounded shaky. “Now it’s your turn.”
Somehow Aryal pulled out another shapeshift. It helped that her wounds had been closed. They still hurt, along with her wings, but she could tell that the healing had taken root, dispelling whatever had caused the wounds to remain open in the first place.
She forced herself up onto her hands and knees. Linwe ran forward, putting an arm around her to help her get to her feet. Aryal looked down at the ground. Quentin had rolled onto his back and sat up. Caerreth was already working on him.
Aryal looked up at Aralorn, then at Linwe. She could barely stand upright, and the Elves weren’t looking any better. And Caerreth was doing all that healing while he was just as depleted as the others.
She said in a rusty-sounding voice, “We all need food, water and real rest. There’s got to be plenty of food supplies in the palace kitchens. And the safest place to rest is down in the prison cells.”
Quentin lifted his head. Aralorn turned to look at her.
She twitched a shoulder. “Think about it. Bitch tries to come into the cell block, the wolves can’t join her and she can’t use magic. I only hope that happens, because that means we’ve got her. And I really need to get her.”
“Aryal’s right,” Quentin said. “The most dangerous thing will be hunting for the palace kitchens to get food and water. I’ll do that.”
Linwe said, “I’ll go with you.”
“You sure?” Quentin asked. He rolled to his feet as Caerreth finished with him.
Linwe said, “I’m the only one who wasn’t injured. And I can run fast.”
“Okay.”
They watched as Caerreth worked on healing the wounds that Aralorn had. By that point the healer wasn’t looking good. When he finished, Caerreth said, “I’m tapped.”
The young Elf was looking down at himself. That was when Aryal realized he was bandaged too, with defensive wounds on both his forearms. Quentin walked over to him and gripped his arms. “When it comes to healing spells, I’m a one-trick pony,” Quentin said. “Are these wounds simple enough for that?”
Caerreth nodded, and Quentin spelled his arms. Afterward, he looked at Aryal. “You might as well go down below. Linwe and I will join you as soon as we can.”
She nodded dully. “See you soon.”
Her heart and head were pounding, and her mouth was dry. She had pushed past her limit some time ago. She didn’t wait to see Quentin and Linwe slip down the hall. Instead, she eased down the stairs to the cell block, bracing herself with one hand against the wall.
Aralorn and Caerreth followed. “It goes against all of my instincts to walk back in there,” Aralorn muttered. “If something happens to Quentin, and the witch traps us in there, we’re caught again and as good as dead.”
“I know,” Caerreth said tiredly. “But we might take more damage if we stayed at the top of the stairs and got caught there. I think we’ve just got to trust Quentin and Linwe to take care of themselves and get back to us with supplies.”
While Aryal heard them, she didn’t care. All she cared about was going horizontal again as quickly as she could. When they entered the cell block again, she went into Quentin’s cell because hers was too bloody.
A formless noise filled her ears, like that of the ocean. It was odd, because she could have sworn the ocean was on the outside of the cell block window. She made her knees unlock one at a time, and forgot to catch herself, so she fell in a sprawl to the ground.
That was the last thing she knew for a long, dark while.
SIXTEEN
Stalking through the dark, silent halls of the palace’s underbelly was like a video game gone bad. Any moment now Quentin felt like they were going to run into a water trap populated with piranhas, while logs swung to and fro overhead and shadow wolves jumped out of nooks to attack them.
He rubbed his face and forcibly banished the image from his mind. He wasn’t quite as bad off as any of the others, but he needed to get some rest, and soon.
He said to Linwe, “Be sure to memorize the way back in case you need to run it by yourself.”
“Aw, damn it,” she said miserably. “I’m not going to need to.”
He was terrible at dates, birthdays and such, but he thought Linwe had to be around thirty or so, which was quite young for an Elven adult. Making any kind of direct age-to-adulthood correlation to shorter-lived races, such as humankind, didn’t compute, for she had already lived as a responsible adult for several years, yet she still retained the liveliness of youth.
He remembered her as a little girl, with her wide, naughty grin and eyes sparking with some kind of mischief. She had been adorable and adored, and had pretty much run wild in Lirithriel Wood for the first fifteen years of her life. He hadn’t visited the Wood often, but he remembered once she had run up to him with a laugh that was bigger than she was. She must have been all of five years old. When she had reached him, he’d picked her up and swung her high, setting her on his shoulder.
An echo of the burning pain came back in his chest. He couldn’t let anything happen to her. Not her too, on top of all the massive losses the Elves had already suffered. He grabbed her by the arm, hauled her close and hugged her fiercely. After her first twitch of surprise, her arms came around his waist, and she hugged him back so hard her slight body shook with the strain.
He bent his head and said in her ear, “You will run if I tell you to. Do you hear me, young lady?”
“Quentin, that’s not my job …” she said.
“Linwe.” He injected all the command he could into his voice. “You don’t have the magical aptitude for this kind of fight. And you. Will. Run.”
“Fine!”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. He knew he was being overbearing and patronizing, and he didn’t give a shit. They all had to react to stress in their own way. This way was his.
He let her go, and they moved on.
After climbing a few staircases and another fifteen minutes or so of searching, they found the kitchens, which were as large as Quentin had expected. Linwe ran to the water pump over a large basin, and pumped out enough water to immerse her head in. While she drank and splashed water on herself, he located the pantries. He checked to make sure he wasn’t near any windows, then he spelled a small ball of light and began collecting supplies.
The pantry held massive amounts of anything he could have hoped to find: wayfarer bread, nuts, dried fruits, jerky, cured meats and dried fish, wheels of cheese, apples, honey, jars of jellies and jams, olives, pickled vegetables and pickled eel, along with potatoes and other tubers, spices, oil and huge sacks of grains.
One pantry held barrels of wine, barley beer, and bottles of liquor, along with wineskins. Given the size of the palace, there were probably other storerooms full of both wine and the foods that were suitable for long storage, but the contents of these pantries alone would be enough to feed the four of them for a few months.
