Brecon laughed. “Not everyone thinks sticking their head in a moor cat’s mouth is a good idea.”
Dar stared, surprised at the rebuke. “If you say so…”
Brecon was grinning broadly. “Glad we have an understanding. Now describe Tarsha.”
Dar did, focusing on her more memorable characteristics—the white-blond hair, the lavender eyes, and the sculpted features. Then he described her dress—although it was hard to be sure what she would be wearing now. He described how she had moved and responded during their conversations, how she used her gestures and facial expressions.
When he was finished, Brecon shrugged. “I’ll do my best. Maybe the hair and eyes will be enough.”
He fished the pouch from his pocket and spilled the Elfstones into his open palm. In the bright daylight, they seemed to absorb the sun’s rays, their deep-blue color enhanced until they appeared twice their normal size. Dar stood back as Brecon gathered his thoughts, the Elfstones clutched in his fist. Then the Elven prince closed his eyes and went perfectly still.
Finally, after long moments, he lifted the hand with the Elfstones until it pointed southwest in the general direction of Backing Fell. Brecon stood like a statue, arm raised and outstretched, eyes closed, face mirroring an intense concentration. Dar watched silently, wondering if anything was going to happen.
It wasn’t. The Elfstones failed to respond.
Brecon lowered his arm and looked over, giving a reluctant shrug. “Nothing.”
“Try again,” Dar urged.
Brecon resumed his stance, his arm lifting once more. This time he kept his eyes open, looking off into the distance as if willing Tarsha Kaynin to appear. The concentration on his face was total. Dar waited, but the Elfstones remained dark.
“Picture her in motion,” Dar said quietly, firmly. “As if she’s struggling with something or perhaps trying to defend herself.”
The Elven prince did not respond, but he remained in place, his arm still stretched out. He inhaled deeply and then exhaled, and his body tensed as his free hand closed about the one that held the Elfstones, both arms now extended out from his body.
A glimmer of blue broke through the cracks between his fingers.
“Yes!” Dar hissed excitedly.
Then shards of indigo exploded from Brecon Elessedil’s clenched fists and shot away into the distance in a ribbon of brightness that carried both watchers with it—down from the rise and across the Sarandanon sharply south and over the Rill Song once again, past forests and hills, gullies and streams, and farther still. The Rock Spur Mountains rose in the distant west, and the light swept past them and angled east toward where the Tirfing bordered the edges of the Matted Brakes, and then curled in on itself until it found a solitary traveler standing next to a small aircraft. It was Tarsha Kaynin, looking north toward Elven country in the direction of Dar and Brecon.
But it wasn’t at Dar and his companion Tarsha Kaynin was looking; it was at three ragged figures approaching from the north.
Dar caught his breath. Beneath the shifting shadows of the cloaks the three wore draped over their gnarled forms, he spied the glimmer of unsheathed blades.
ELEVEN
Immediately after speaking with Jes Weisen about Tavo, Tarsha Kaynin departed Backing Fell to renew her search. Hearing the old woman tell the tale of what had happened to her parents and brother had left her shaken and unsure of what she was doing, but Tarsha had made up her mind to continue on. No matter what her brother had done, no matter how sick or angry or disturbed he was, she had to try to help him. If she abandoned him now, he was lost. There was no one else who would bother looking for him or to whom he could turn. He would continue on his rampage through the Westland villages and beyond until someone imprisoned or killed him.
No matter the danger to herself, she could not allow this. She could not live with herself if she let it happen.
So she flew her small airship east in the direction Tavo had taken, stopping frequently at small villages and outlying camps in an effort to find his trail. There was no other way for her to track him—no other way that made any sense. He was traveling alone and with a purpose that only he could know, so she had little to go on.
She found the village Jes Weisen had described to her—a tiny hamlet with a scattering of shacks and ramshackle homes and a tavern and smithy’s forge—much later that same day. A rumor of its misfortune had spread to other, larger villages not far away and led her to it. She left her airship concealed in nearby woods and entered near dusk, a solitary presence entering a ghost town. No one was about; only a few lights shone in the windows of the shacks. But a solitary light was visible through a boarded-up window of the tavern, so she entered.
The barroom was empty, the serving counter deserted. The light emanated from a candle-lit lantern hanging from the back wall. In its feeble glow she could see the remains of smashed tables and chairs and holes in the walls of the building. There were dark stains all across the wooden floor, and in places pieces of the ceiling had been torn away. At first, she thought the building deserted, but then a haggard, empty-eyed serving woman walked out of the kitchen area from behind the bar and stared at her. “We’re closed,” she said.
Tarsha walked over to her. “I’m looking for the person who did…” She hesitated, then gestured at the room. “All this.”
The woman frowned. “What’s he to you?”
Tarsha hesitated. Best not to reveal too much. “We grew up in the same village. I heard what happened here. I thought maybe I could talk to him.”
The serving woman shook her head. “Last one to try that ended up that stain over there.” She pointed at a particularly large spattering of dried blood. “I carted his body out back with the others. Burned them all to keep any sickness from spreading to those of us who are left.” She gave Tarsha a sharp look. “What makes you think he would listen to you? He isn’t in his right mind, you know. Wouldn’t listen to me or to any of those men he killed. So why would he listen to you?”
“We were friends when he was younger. Before…any of this. Are you saying talking won’t work anymore?”
“I’m saying exactly that.” The woman brushed back her lank hair and frowned some more, remembering. “I could tell something was wrong with him the moment he walked in. I tried to help him—even told him he maybe ought to go somewhere else. It’s a rough crowd comes into this place, men who don’t treat strangers well. He wouldn’t listen. Didn’t even seem to want to. Then he got into it with a few of the regulars—bad men, all of them.”
She paused, locking gazes with Tarsha. “He just exploded, girl. Went all the way crazy. He had some sort of terrible magic in his voice. He sang, he did—an awful sound—and he tore those men and everyone else in the room apart. Made them explode! It was terrible to watch. I was hiding in the kitchen, one eye watching through the door when I could stand it. Tables and chairs flying, bodies tossed about, blood everywhere. I couldn’t do nothing. I didn’t even want to try. Not with him.”