Standing at the railing several hours into their flight, watching the Dragon’s Teeth draw steadily closer, she allowed herself a moment to accept how small their chances of changing Arling’s fate were. There was no record of any Chosen selected to serve as the Ellcrys’s successor having failed to do so. What she might do—what any of them might do—to release Arling from her obligation was impossible to imagine. It was only her love for her sister and her dislike of destinies dictated by factors beyond her control that made her determined to press ahead. She knew this visit to Paranor was ill advised, but Arling was precious to her and terrified of what she was being asked to accept, and Aphenglow would do whatever she could to find another way.
Even risk her life, as she was doing now.
Even give up her life, if it came to it.
She would do anything for Arling.
They brought Wend-A-Way in from the north, after sunset, using the deep gloom of the Northland skies to shield their approach. Aphen knew of a clearing within a mile of the Keep, well back from where they might be spotted in the darkness, and they set the airship down there, within the shelter of the ancient trees of the Forbidden Forest.
The plan was to get back into the Keep by means of the secret tunnels that linked the fortress to the outside. Any direct approach to the walls or gates would almost certainly risk detection. But entering through the underground passageways—while it would risk an encounter with the dark magic Aphenglow had released when they departed—was at least marginally safer. She did not believe the Federation had been able to find a way to penetrate the walls and survive what was now waiting there for them, but that didn’t mean Drust Chazhul and his minions would have stopped looking.
In any case, she was prepared to deal with the magic. After all, she had released it; there was at least a chance it would recognize her and let her pass safely. Whatever the case, only she and Woostra could risk trying to enter the Keep. Theirs was an established presence, and the magic was less likely to attack them. Arling and Cymrian would be viewed as intruders and dispatched without a second thought. Even Woostra was at some risk, she had to admit, given that he was not a Druid. But he insisted on coming, and Aphen knew that without him there to help her, she would be left at a severe disadvantage. She would do her best to keep him safe. She would ward him with magic of her own.
His response was a dismissive snort and a curt insistence that he didn’t need any warding in his own home.
Leaving Arling and Cymrian with the airship, the Druid and the keeper of the records crept through the trees to where the nearest entrance to the tunnels was concealed. By then, they were within a hundred yards of the fortress walls, but still had not encountered anyone at all. Woostra, leading the way, had no trouble finding the trapdoor, but it took him a while to release the hidden locks. Whether due to rust or weather or the tightness of the seals, they refused to budge at first. But eventually, his efforts prevailed and the locks released.
Pulling back on the hatch cover, he led the way inside.
They stood next to each other, searching the gloom. A rack of torches was fastened to the bedrock of the wall, and Aphen and Woostra each removed a pitch-coated brand and ignited it. From there, they wound their way ahead, descending several sets of stairs until they were deep underground and far enough forward of where they had entered that Aphenglow was certain they were beneath the Keep proper.
Woostra stopped. “Do you hear anything?”
She shook her head.
“Good. But keep listening, anyway.”
“I sense something, though.”
He looked at her. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
They stayed where they were awhile longer as Aphen struggled to decide what her instincts were telling her.
“We’d better keep going,” she said finally.
Not long after, they reached an ancient iron door set into the rock with pins and metal plates, its surface overgrown with mold and crawling with insects, its metal dulled and rusted. She brushed off the handle, seized it with both hands, and twisted hard.
Nothing.
She looked at Woostra. “What’s wrong?”
“There are locks in the plates above and below the handles,” he told her, peering closely at the door. “A combination of touches to the pins releases them. Here, let me try.”
Moving ahead of her, he worked the pins in a particular sequence, then seized the handle and twisted. The locks released at once, and the door opened.