They stood silently for a time, trying various ways to stay warm, thinking over the mystery of Drisker and Paranor’s emergence from limbo. Tarsha believed that the Druid was clearly a stronger person now, and that whatever was to happen to him, it would not include running away once again to Emberen. That part of his life was over.
She hoped that this new commitment she sensed in him included a renewed dedication to teaching her how to use her magic. He had reminded her that she was still his student, and still beholden to serve him for the time she had promised, so she had reason to hope her lessons would continue even in the face of all else that was happening.
“You should return to Arborlon, Brec,” Dar said suddenly. “None of this is your problem. You’ve done your part by using the Elfstones to get us this far. You don’t owe us anything more.”
Brecon nodded. “You could make that argument. But maybe I do owe something to the Elves and to myself when it comes to Ajin d’Amphere and the Skaar. They aren’t going to vanish on their own, and we both know that the Four Lands remain in danger as a result. I’m not my father. I’m not interested in sitting back in the safe haven of Arborlon while the rest of the Four Lands falls to pieces.”
“No one is suggesting that you should,” the Blade assured him quickly. “But your mother is going to wonder what has become of you, and sooner or later your father is going to find out the Elfstones are missing and know who took them. You could put all that right by leaving now and going home.”
“What, and abandon my duties as a protector of Tarsha Kaynin?” He feigned indignation. “I think not! She may need me to carry her to safety again before things are fully settled.”
For a second, Tarsha was furious at the idea she needed looking after in any way at all, but then she realized she had heard something unexpected in the Elf’s voice. He wasn’t complaining. He was expressing an unexpected interest in her—one that hinted of attraction. Within the covering of her cloak’s cowl, she blushed in spite of herself.
“You are rather good at spiriting beautiful maidens from danger,” Dar Leah acknowledged with a laugh. “Maybe that’s your real calling. You seem up to the task.”
“Enough already,” Tarsha interjected, frowning at them. “I am already in Brecon’s debt and do not think to impose further. I can look after myself.”
After that, the conversation died away. Tarsha was still getting used to the idea that the Elven prince might find her attractive when Drisker’s call reached them. Foolishness, she thought. Attraction has no place in my life. Joining the other two in picking up the fallen firewood, she hurried back through the forest to see what had become of her brother.
THREE
SHEA OHMSFORD WAS SWIFTLY coming to terms with how hard it was going to be to rescue Tindall from Assidian Deep. It was somewhere after midnight, but he could not be certain of how much. He had been maneuvering his way through the sewage ducts of the prison for what felt like hours. Inside those metal tunnels, it was impossible to tell if it was day or night.
It was a prison all its own.
Shea was not happy about his role—and less so once Rocan Arneas had advised him of what he was going to have to do even to reach the cell where Tindall was imprisoned. Assidian Deep was a dark, monstrous tomb, a Federation disposal system for those who had transgressed in the worst of ways or fallen so far out of favor with those in power that there was no coming back. Entering it under any circumstances was bad, but entering it through the sewage ducts was almost unbearable.
Still, Shea had reached the nineteenth floor, where Tindall was supposedly held, before real trouble surfaced.
He had just removed an iron grate that barred his way down the duct he needed to follow when he heard something approaching. It was a mechanical sound—a whisking, whirring, scraping sound—so it wasn’t difficult to guess that it was a scrubber. Rocan had said that they would all be shut down for the night. But given the way everything connected with this endeavor had gone so far, Shea was not surprised to discover that someone had apparently forgotten to hit the off switch on at least one of the things. He hesitated a moment, debating whether to go back. Perhaps if he retreated down the ladder to the next level, the scrubber would turn around and go back the other way. But as he needed to be in this very tunnel to find Tindall, he’d then be left following behind a live scrubber, and that idea certainly held little appeal.
If it even was a scrubber. Maybe there was something else wandering about in here. Maybe he was mistaken about it being a scrubber.
But he wasn’t.
The machine slipped into view: a horrific assemblage of appendages ending in scrapers and wheels churning with gears that drove the metal beast inexorably forward. Shea knew at once that there was no getting past something that filled the duct system as completely as this did. Those arms moved up and down against the walls and ceiling and its squat body rolled flat against the floor, metal brushes working hard to loosen debris and waste.
Shea backed away quickly. His better judgment told him to get down the ladder as fast as he could and wait for the scrubber to turn around. Or even to go back to Rocan and attempt a different approach, if that’s what it came to.
Then an unexpected idea occurred to him, and he looked down at the substance he still held in his hand: the leather wrapping with the corrosive clay. What would happen if those damp, grimy wheels rolled over a clump of this?
He flattened a wad and stuck it on the floor directly in the path of the scrubber. Then he hastily spat on the clay and ducked down the ladder as the substance flared and dissolved into a puddle of acid. He didn’t want to be in the vicinity when the scrubber encountered the acid. That is, if it didn’t eat through the stone floor of the tunnel first. But there were not a lot of options left.
There he hung, waiting breathlessly. He did not have to wait long. After only a few seconds, gears and wheels lost their rhythm and began to clunk and grind with a clear indication of damage. Cautiously, Shea climbed back up to where he could peek over the edge of the duct and look down its length. The scrubber was now a mostly inert mass of half-dissolved metal. It was jerking in distress, and some of the undissolved appendages on top were still moving, but slowly the substance was doing its work.
Yet would it be enough?
Shea watched for an anxious moment, but then the acid must have penetrated to the mechanical heart of the beast, for it stopped shuddering and went still. Its undercarriage had dissolved enough to leave a boy-sized gap between its back and the tunnel roof. Still, forcing himself over its humped top and through that deadly tangle of frozen limbs—all while avoiding the acid that continued to eat away at its undercarriage—was one of the hardest things he had ever done.
There was a moment when it shifted beneath him, one of its outstretched arms brushing his cheek, and he was certain it would come to life again and shred him. But then he was up and over, and fleeing down the tunnel, hoping he had seen the last of the scrubbers for this lifetime.