He knew what kind of strength he had, and he knew that he had dangerous attributes. So had his father, who had seen him trained from an early age, both in magical and martial arts. His father’s goal had been to avoid him becoming a loose cannon, with too much ability and not enough skill. Quentin had kept up with the training when he reached adulthood because the push and strain appealed to his aggressive nature.
The result was that he could kill with a single blow. Breaking a couple of bones was even easier, especially if his sex partner were a human.
But if Aryal wasn’t on target with what she had said, why did he still feel so restless and dissatisfied?
At midday he reached the ridge. He followed along the edge until he came to a lake, where he decided to stop. He had burned off his breakfast and then some a long while ago. He drank his fill from the bone-numbing cold water. The lake was such a deep blue, it looked like a huge sapphire rested in the depths underneath the surface.
Then, instead of taking the time to set up a fire ring and cook, he opted to do what he had done that morning, which was open up a couple of cans of food and eat the contents cold. It wasn’t appetizing, but it was fuel. He was looking forward to a hot meal that night, though.
He sat on the large trunk of a fallen tree as he ate. His body gradually cooled, but the light breeze still felt good on his sweaty skin. The temp was probably in the midforties, but he didn’t plan on stopping long enough to cool down to the point where he would want to shrug on his sweater again.
A shadow fell over him. He looked up. Aryal coasted on a thermal overhead. She wheeled and came in for a landing, then shapeshifted and walked over to him. Her color was high, and she looked more vital than anything else on the landscape, an intense concentration of energy and physicality.
She had found somewhere to stash her pack, because she was no longer carrying it. Her gaze fell to his bare chest and lingered. He turned away and snapped at the last of his food, swallowing it down without really chewing.
Aryal sat beside him, drew up her legs and wrapped her arms around her knees. “You’re making good time,” she said. “There’s a hunter’s cabin that I think you can reach by nightfall, if you push.”
A hunter’s cabin would be shelter in the form of at least four walls and a ceiling, and probably a fireplace too. Hunters’ cabins were rarely large, luxurious places. They would be lucky if there was more than one room. It meant sharing a confined space with her again. He heaved a sigh that was halfway to a growl. “We’ll see.”
She tilted the toes of her boots up and looked at them. “I found a passageway.”
Irritable at his meal that had been filling yet not satisfying, and in the mood for something sweet, he had begun to dig in his pack for an energy bar. He frowned at her. “You found
She grimaced and lifted a shoulder. “It seems to be in the right location, but I didn’t land like you asked, and I don’t know that it’s the Numenlaur passageway.” She looked at him sidelong. “Thing of it is, I didn’t see any Elves nearby, so I’m not sure.”
He considered that as he tore the wrapper off his bar and took a bite. “Did you catch sight of a camp?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. It couldn’t be the second passageway, could it? The one that leads to the Lirithriel Other land?”
He chewed thoughtfully. He wouldn’t have thought she would have flown that far off course, but just in case, he asked, “Can you sketch where you found it?”
She slipped off the tree trunk, found a stick and started drawing in the mud at the edge of the lake. “I followed your directions. Here’s the ridge. It curves around the edge of this outlying mountain that sort of sticks out from the rest of the range like a stubby thumb.”
He lifted his eyebrows. She certainly had a unique perspective from the air. He said, “Okay.”
“The ridge ends here, in a deep big ravine.” She slashed at the mud. “It’s actually bigger than a ravine, more like a canyon. That’s where the passageway is.”
“That sounds right,” he said. “Remember, I’ve never seen the passageway myself, but that’s pretty much what Ferion described. The other passageway is a good fifteen to twenty miles farther on south from there.”
She looked up at him. “So where are the Elven guards?”
“Elves are very good at blending into their environment,” he said as he finished the bar. He rinsed out the empty cans, crushed them underneath the heel of one boot and tucked the metal back into his pack.
Aryal stood tapping her foot. “I know that.” She scowled. “Okay, so maybe I didn’t actually set both feet on soil, but I flew down really low, right over the tops of the trees and sometimes in between them. I don’t think the guards are there, Quentin.”
He gave her a long look. He didn’t waste time calling her on her legalistic thinking, just focused on her story instead. He also didn’t bother asking her if she had seen any signs of an old campsite. When the Elves broke camp, they removed all traces of their visit on the land. If they had been there and departed, they wouldn’t have left any signs for someone to find.
“So either I found the wrong passageway …” she said.
He glanced again at the map drawn in the mud. “You didn’t.”
“Or for some reason the Elves felt the need to cross over into Numenlaur,” she finished.
“I guess they might have,” he said. “I wonder what could have caused them to cross over, and if they did, why didn’t they leave someone on guard at this end, like they had been ordered?” His shoulders were not happy about his picking up his pack again. He paused before he slipped it back on. “There’s a third possibility. Maybe they never arrived.”
“Whatever the possibilities, they lead to just two questions,” she said. “Where are the Elves now, and why aren’t they where they are supposed to be?” She focused on him. “Stop that. Take your pack off.”
He asked suspiciously, “Why?”
“I’ll take it.” She held out her hand. “You’ll make better time without it. If you can change, you’ll definitely reach the cabin by tonight. The passageway is just a couple of hours’ hike beyond that point. We can be there by mid-morning.”
He paused as he thought about that, studying her face. If he handed over his pack, Aryal would have all of the supplies along with the car keys.
Even if she decided to do something pissy, like take off with everything, the theft wouldn’t hurt him, only inconvenience him. He knew his survival skills were more than good enough to handle the terrain, and he would keep his weapons on him.
He had hesitated a moment too long. Her eyes narrowed in either disgust or impatience. She said, “Don’t be stupid. I thought we were at least past that point.”
“Fine,” he said. “Hold on a moment.”
Along with handguns and knives, they had both brought short swords, the kind that could be stowed along the length of the inside of their packs. Legally, they could have brought long swords, but those tended to be more trouble than they were worth on long airplane flights.
He was already wearing the knife. He opened up his pack and drew out the sword and the gun, then handed the pack over to her.
She slid it on with a near-soundless grunt, and adjusted the weight.
“Where’s the cabin?” he asked.
She gave him directions, shapeshifted and visibly braced herself. She had gone much farther than he had already, and yes, she had a pair of wings that allowed her to cover more distance quickly, but she had also scouted the surrounding terrain with what sounded like a great deal of care. He didn’t think it was easy for a large avian Wyr to coast so low to the ground that she could fly between trees. She had to be tired.
The word he wanted to say stuck in his throat a little. “Thanks.”
She made a face. “I just want to get to the passageway as fast as we can, so forget it.”
“Already done.” He stood back and watched her launch.
Man, she might get under his skin like the most irritating splinter ever experienced, but he had to admit one thing. She was truly something to see when she took flight.
He shapeshifted too, and the panther raced after the harpy, following the direction of her trajectory.
Aryal landed at the hunter’s cabin with a sense of relief, and as soon as she could, she shrugged out of Quentin’s backpack. As a harpy she could fly for days if needed, but that was if she stayed in her natural state and
