Crashing Paradise (from lit) by Christopher Golden & Thomas E. Sniegoski

Author:Christopher Golden & Thomas E. Sniegoski. [Golden, Christopher]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction/Fantasy
Publisher: PENGUIN Group (USA) Inc.
Published: 2007-07-10T22:00:00+00:00

THE world transformed into a rush of blue and gray, the wind propelling them forward even as it encircled and held them aloft. Conan Doyle squinted, wishing that for once he could get a clear view of the world around him as the elemental spirits hurtled them toward their destination. Glimpses of towns and forests and a bit of ocean were all he could manage.

He had never been certain if those fragmentary images were real and tangible—that the traveling wind simply rushed Ceridwen through the physical world—or if the elemental spirits transported her into their own realm, a place of wind and storm, and those glimpses were windows. He suspected the latter, but even Ceridwen did not know for certain, and her rapport with the elements far exceeded that of any ordinary human sorcerer, no matter how accomplished.

In the grasp of the wind, Conan Doyle tried to force himself to relax, to surrender to them, but he had never been comfortable with giving over control to others. Squire liked it even less. He could hear the hobgoblin cursing as though far, far away, the words stolen away by the gale, lost in their trail. Conan Doyle tried to glance back, but the ’goblin was little more than a dark blur. He felt Ceridwen’s grip tighten on his hand and looked at her, then past her, at the heavy, golemlike figure of Clay. He had reverted to his natural form, and the wind scoured away bits of dirt, eroding his face to a strange smoothness.

His jacket whipped around him, snapping like a flag.

Conan Doyle heard Ceridwen shout at Squire. Apparently his questing hands, in search of a more substantial grip, had slipped beneath her dress. The mage could not help smiling.

Then he felt one of the hobgoblin’s hands clutch at his arm, and he nearly lost his grip. Conan Doyle cursed, trying not to imagine where he might land if Ceridwen were to lose track of him in the midst of the traveling wind.

They slowed. The blur of air twisted around them in a kind of cyclone. Arthur could not help it—every time Ceridwen transported him this way, he waited for the drop, for the impact of his feet upon solid ground. Yet as ever, the traveling wind began to dissipate, and he felt only the weight of his own body settling once more, and found himself standing in the midst of a thick forest whose trees were like things out of legend. Their trunks were thick with gnarled bark, and their branches twisted up into the night sky. The trees towered above them ominously, as though they might come to life at any moment.

But this wasn’t that kind of forest.

The wind whispered through the leaves and across the forest floor, and only the natural breeze remained. The air held the scent of the ocean, only miles to the west.

Ceridwen released his hand, perhaps a bit too quickly. Her blond hair was wild from the wind and her violet eyes gleamed with a preternatural light.

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