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  She put her deliberations on that subject aside and gave consideration to what had become of Aleia after her return to Arborlon. She had indicated in her diary entry that she had been given another chance at making things right, one that she hoped might give her a measure of redemption. But what sort of chance? The diary didn’t say.

  And what was the truth about the Darkling boy? Had he taken the Elfstones solely as a means of forcing her to come in search of him? Was he motivated entirely by his love for her, as she so desperately wanted to believe? Or had he intended all along to steal the Elfstones or whatever other magic he could lay his hands on? Was he the dark creature she feared he might be, his seduction of her purposeful and lacking in any real feeling or passion? Had he been pretending the whole time? There were arguments both ways. She had a feeling this was something no one would ever know.

  Which was perhaps for the best. It would be sad to discover that Aleia had been deceived, that she had given herself to a liar and a thief.

  Aphen leaned back in her chair and stared out the window. There were so many questions—and so many needing answers when answers were in short supply. Tomorrow she would look into the records of the Kings and Queens of Faerie, at the carefully recorded lineages of royal parents and children. Most were still intact. Aleia and her parents would be listed somewhere. There would be little information beyond the names, but it was a start to the search she now knew she had to undertake.

  Her hand strayed to her pack where it rested by her side, her fingers finding the flat surface of the diary where it nestled inside.

  “Coming to bed anytime soon?”

  Arlingfant stepped into the room, small and delicate and wreathed in silk. She came over to her sister and knelt in front of her as if in supplication. Her perfect face—oval in shape, and dominated by her dark eyes and pronounced Elven features—canted upward, a smile appearing like a crescent moon come out from behind a cloud’s shadow.

  “I heard you come in. My senses are every bit as good as yours, Aph.”

  “Everything about you is as good. Were you sleeping or just lying awake waiting for me?”

  “Lying awake. I was thinking.” She brushed away loose strands of her dark hair absently. “The tree is so mysterious to me, even after almost eight months of caring for her. She almost never communicates, even in the smallest of ways. She relies on us to do what is needed, and we are expected to anticipate what those needs might be. It seems impossible that anyone could do this. Even though there are twelve of us serving her, we might miss something. We might interpret what we see the wrong way. We might do any number of things to cause her harm. Yet somehow we don’t. But that doesn’t mean we don’t spend every waking minute worrying about it.”

  She looked away. “Today, while I was cleaning her bark, working at the things that might sicken or mar its surfaces, I had the oddest feeling. I thought I heard the tree say something. The voice just came out of nowhere, like a whisper in my ear. I knew it wasn’t one of the other Chosen because I know their voices and this wasn’t one I knew. I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone near and didn’t hear the voice again. But later, I mentioned to Freershan that I thought one of the tree branches had touched me. The tip of a branch, reaching down to touch my shoulder. But when I turned to look, there wasn’t anything there.”

  Aphenglow reached out and touched her sister’s face. “The tree is magic, Arling. It doesn’t seem too odd that magical things might happen in its presence. Even ones of the sort you describe. Is the tree all right?”

  Arlingfant nodded. “She seems fine. No one mentioned anything at the end of the day. It was just these … things.”

  Aphenglow stood up. “Do you want a glass of milk?”

  Her sister nodded, and Aphenglow walked into the kitchen, opened the cold box, took out the milk pitcher, and poured a little of its contents into two glasses. She put the milk away again and carried the glasses back into the living room.

  “It will help you sleep,” she said, handing Arlingfant the glass.

  They drank the milk in silence, sitting in the darkness, the quarter moon’s soft light spilling down through the trees and filtering in through the cottage windows. Her mind drifted back to the diary, and for a moment she toyed with the idea of telling her sister what she had found. It would be good to have another opinion, to share her thoughts with someone who might bring a fresh perspective. But she resisted the impulse. She didn’t want to put her sister in the position of having to cover for her if someone found out. Shared thoughts and fresh opinions could wait until she knew something more.

  “Find anything interesting today?” Arlingfant asked suddenly, as if reading her mind.

  “Nothing,” Aphen lied. Lying was getting easier. It was starting to feel natural. “I’m getting to the end of my search, though. Not too many more boxes of letters and notes to go. I finished the last of the history appendices a week ago. It’s exhausting work.”

  “Translating must be hard. So much of it is archaic. Ancient Elfish. Different dialects. It’s good that you’re trained to read those.”

  Aphenglow nodded. She had studied ancient Elven languages starting at the age of ten. She had a knack for it, a real sense of meanings and purposes in the use of words, and when she’d returned a year ago to undertake this task, she had come prepared with more than fifteen years of experience in deciphering what Elves thousands of years gone had written down.

  “I might have to return to Paranor for a bit,” she said suddenly. “For a week or so, perhaps.”

  The idea had just occurred to her, although in truth she must have known from the moment she had read the first few entries in the diary. She needed to consult the other Druids. A decision had to be made about what to do with this information, and where to take the search from here. She had promised her grandfather she would not take anything away, but the promise had been falsely given. She had always intended to take whatever she found. She was an Elf and loyal to her people, but not at the expense of the other Races. In that regard, she was a Druid first. Magic was meant to be shared, and it was safest in the hands of the Druids, who would make sure that happened.

  “Aphen.” Her sister moved close to her, placing her hands on Aphen’s shoulders. “Take me away. I want to leave here. I want to go with you.”

  Aphenglow shook her head. “You know I can’t do that.”

  “I know you’ve said you can’t. But there’s nothing you can’t do, if you want to. A Druid has immense power, and you are the best of them all. If you tell them you want me there, they will have to let me stay.”

  They had covered this before, many times. Arlingfant had it in her head that she was meant to be not a Chosen, but a Druid like her sister. She didn’t care about the inevitable repercussions. She was prepared to give up everything if Aphen would just take her to Paranor.

  “You can’t leave your friends to tend the Ellcrys without you,” Aphenglow said pointedly. “They need you. If I am the best of the Druids, you are ten times the best of the Chosen. You are the one who always knows what to do. How many times have you ferreted out sickness or blight that no one else even noticed? You can’t walk away from that. Later, maybe, when your year of service is finished. But not now.”

  “I know, I know. You’ve said this often enough. But I want to study magic with you!”

  “Which leads to something else you keep ignoring. I don’t make the choice of who becomes a Druid by myself. All in service must agree, and the Ard Rhys must be awake when that happens. At present, she rests in the Druid Sleep and is not to be woken for another two years unless an emergency requires it. Taking in another Druid—even you, Arling—does not qualify as an emergency.

  “Besides,” she added, “there is a reluctance to accept members of the same family into the order. You know this. There are genuine concerns about how blood ties would affect their performance as Druids.”

  She embraced her sister. “Nevertheless, when your service is over I will put
your name before the others and make every effort to gain you a place. Don’t you think I would like to have you with me? Don’t you know I miss you?”

  Arlingfant hugged her back. “I do know, Aphen. I don’t mean to be unreasonable. But it’s hard sometimes to have to wait so long.”

  Aphen laughed. “I know what you mean. Go on to bed, now. I will be up shortly. I just need to go through my notes one more time to be sure I’ve written everything down.”

  Her sister kissed her on the cheek, got to her feet, and left the room. Aphenglow listened to the soft pad of her feet on the stairs, the squeak of the bed ropes, and silence.

  Then she took out the diary and sat looking at the last entry. Pathke, Meresch, and their Aleia. Very likely a King, his wife, and his daughter. She must find their place in the Elven histories and determine if that might in some way help with her search for the missing Elfstones. Certainly it had happened a long time ago; the Elfstones had been missing since the last war between the Word and Void, in the time of Faerie.

  And the city of Rajancroft where the Darkling boy had lived—where was that?

  She must find all this out and begin fitting the pieces together. She must ferret out—

  A shadow passed by the window on her right, and the thought was left unfinished as her attention shifted immediately. She did not react to the movement—she was trained to do otherwise—but instead closed the diary and slipped it down between the cushions on her left, effectively hiding it from view in a smooth natural movement that wouldn’t be noticed by watching eyes.

  She waited a moment, giving herself time to think and her watcher time to reappear at the window.

  When nothing happened, she stood up, looking as if she might be ready to retire, but using the act as a way to glance from window to window.

  Nothing.

  And then a silken cord, its threads strong and tightly wound, slipped about her neck and cut off her air.

  Her attacker’s moves were so practiced and smooth that she was certain he had killed this way before. It would have meant the death of many others, and she had only a moment to ensure it would not be hers. She slammed her head backward into his, stomped down on his right ankle, and thrust her elbow back into his rib cage. She had been trained in hand-to-hand combat by no less an authority than the formidable Bombax, and she knew exactly what to do.

  The problem was that it seemed to make no difference to her attacker, who barely responded to what would have crippled others.

  Pressed close against him as he continued to twist and tighten the cord, she tried to throw him and failed. He was too heavy, too well balanced. Even as tall and strong as she was, she was no match for him. She tried to use his weight against him, to trip him and topple him to the floor. That, too, failed. They were careening about the room like wild things, slamming into the walls, furnishings flying about, tipping over, breaking. Aphenglow possessed defensive skills that made her the equal of anyone, but she was losing this fight. She could feel her strength seeping away and could see spots before her eyes.

  Then Arlingfant came tearing down the stairs, screaming like a banshee, a cudgel gripped in both hands. Without slowing, she whacked at her sister’s attacker, catching him on the side of the head with a blow that rocked him just enough for Aphenglow to tear herself free of the killing cord.

  But when she turned to engage her attacker, he was already out the door and had vanished into the night. Arling started to give pursuit, but Aphenglow pulled her back, shaking her head.

  It took her a moment before she could speak. “Let him go,” she said, gasping for breath. “We don’t want to give him the advantage he seeks by bungling out into the darkness.”

  Her attacker was male. Of that she was certain—of his sex if not his Race. She had seen his wrists when he broke away—just a glimpse, but enough to be able to tell by the size and the amount of hair.

  She moved over to a bench next to the dining table and lowered herself gingerly. The cord had burned her neck, and her breathing was still ragged. “You saved me, Arling. He was too strong for me. I couldn’t fight him off.”

  Her sister bent close, examining her neck. “I hope I bashed his head in,” she muttered. “Sit still. I’ll bring cold cloths and ointment for the burn.”

  She moved into the kitchen, and Aphenglow quickly stepped over to the chair, retrieved the diary, and slipped it into her blouse. She was furious with herself for allowing someone to get that close. It shouldn’t have been possible for an attacker to creep up on her like that; her normally dependable instincts should have warned her. That they hadn’t was troubling.

  Arlingfant was back, carrying a small, lighted lantern, which she placed on the table next to her sister. Then she proceeded to clean the burns with cold cloths and to apply a pain-relieving ointment. She worked quickly and efficiently, her small fingers smooth and clever.

  “Who would do this?” she asked, the anger in her voice undiminished. “Why would anyone attack you in your own home?”

  “I don’t know,” Aphenglow lied, already suspecting why, if not who.

  “Did they take anything?”

  “No. What is there to take? It was probably just someone who doesn’t care for young women leaving their Elven family to join a Druid order. Perhaps someone with a grudge or a perceived hurt.”

  “Well, whoever it was will have a sore head in the morning.” Her sister finished with the cleaning and ointments. “He tried to kill you, Aphen!”

  “Or scare me. Wanting to send a message of some sort, maybe. We can’t be certain.”

  But she was certain. Whoever had attacked her was experienced and skilled. It wasn’t some common person, someone with resentments or a misguided sense of duty. And the nature of the attack suggested her assailant had been trying very hard to injure her badly, not merely scare her.

  But who would want to hurt her? Who would benefit from that? She didn’t know. She didn’t have any identifiable enemies and couldn’t think of anyone who carried a grudge of this magnitude. She couldn’t help thinking she had been attacked because of the diary. But who would even know she had it? Who had come close enough to find out?

  Only her uncle, Ellich. But her uncle loved her and would never do something like this. So was there someone who would benefit by having her dead and the diary in hand? Someone who had been watching her and saw her take the diary from the archives?

  But if she had been seen taking the diary, why not just demand it back? Why try to injure her? Or why not just steal it from her, or try to frighten her into giving it up? Harming her seemed extreme, if getting possession of the diary was the principal goal.

  Whatever the case, she was determined to press on. The attack had only strengthened her resolve. She would begin her search of the lineage charts first thing in the morning, just as she had planned.

  But she would be keeping careful watch when she did.

  3

  When Aphenglow Elessedil woke the following morning, she ached everywhere. Moving slowly and stiffly, she went to the basin, dropped her sleeping shift, and washed herself gingerly. She was a mass of bruises and scratches, and the marks from the cord that had been wound about her neck burned at the slightest touch. She took time to reapply the ointment Arling had used the night before. Then she stretched to relieve the tightness in her body, dressed, and went down to breakfast. She ate standing up at the kitchen counter, staring out the window as the night’s shadows receded and sunrise brightened the eastern sky.

  Her sister had already gone. She would be down in the Gardens of Life with the other Chosen, gathered to welcome the Ellcrys to a new day and anxious to begin their assigned tasks. Her sister might say she didn’t want to do the work of her order, but Aphenglow knew she took great pride in what she did. She was particularly suited to the position of Chosen, and was looked up to by the others for her skills and instincts as a Healer and caregiver. Yes, she wanted to be a Druid, and there were reasons to think that she would be a good one;
she had talents that would lend themselves to the complicated and demanding work of the Druid order. But as impatient as her sister was to join her, Aphenglow knew she was better off where she was. Arling was still young, nine years Aphen’s junior, and she was not yet fully cognizant of what it would do to her life if she followed in her sister’s footsteps.

  Aphen finished her fruit and bread, but stayed at the window and continued to watch the day brighten. Something was troubling her, though she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was.

  After five minutes or so of staring at nothing much, she left the kitchen, walked to the front door, and stepped outside. No one in the nearby residences was in evidence, so she couldn’t ask if they had seen or heard anything last night. Instead she began walking around the little cottage, picking her way toward the window where she had seen the shadow pass. Her tracking skills were good enough that she soon found footprints—a man’s, by the size of them. She followed them a short distance. They stopped, backtracked a bit, and then, with an obvious change in the length of the stride, signaled that the man had begun running. She followed the prints to the end of the yard, where they disappeared out onto the pathway that led from her tiny neighborhood into the city.

  She stood looking at the footprints, perplexed by what she was seeing.

  And then she realized, all at once, what was troubling her.

  How had her attacker passed by the window one moment and gotten behind her the next? The time frame was too short for that to have happened. Which meant there had to have been more than one—the first man, whose shadow had drawn her attention, and a second who had come in through the kitchen door and attacked her.

  She stood looking down the pathway for a moment and then walked back to the window and around the house to the rear door. Sure enough, the clear depressions of a second set of prints, larger than the first, were outlined in the bare earth by the flower beds Arlingfant so carefully tended. The second man had lingered here, and then come through the door to attack her.