Zelda sat at the head of her Royal Council, eyes closed and head propped up with one hand, wishing she were on the far side of the country. The last few days had not been kind to her. What little sleep she had managed to catch was plagued with blood-soaked nightmares or silent, clutching darkness—the kind of darkness that smothers the mind of a person who is either dying or senseless. She much preferred the nightmares; at least she knew in the depths of her subconscious that they were only dreams and she would eventually wake up.
She drew in a long breath and sighed it out. Brown half-moons hung under her eyes and her face was long, weary. The physical effects of a few restless nights didn't cause her concern, though; it was the muddy, stupid haze in her mind she found troubling.
Sage Rauru was seated to her right, Counselor (Uncle) Mortemus at her left. Also in attendance were Sages Impa and Nabooru, as well as the shimmering, miniature images of Sages Ruto, Darunia and Saria, beaming from their respective spiritual stones in the center of the table. The only official members of the Council who had been summoned to this secret meeting were Orendal, the Steward of Hyrule, Chancellor Garrin, and Chief Marshal Lowen. After all, this was a matter of some political and military concern.
For the last hour they had all been debating, some quite passionately, about the possibility of whether or not this was an anomaly in the Lines, and if it were, what was to be done about it. Zelda remained quiet, listening to their arguments while a headache of nauseating proportions hatched behind her eyes.
Orendal was particularly vocal about his concern, and Rauru was beginning to look harassed by his questions.
"We may be Sages," he said to the Steward, "but even we cannot see the future. All we know at this point is that the painting in King Zurden's study began bleeding four days ago and has not ceased. Counselor Mortemus inspected it thoroughly and found no spells or enchantment which might be causing this ghastly transformation."
"And logic dictates that if there is no magic involved, then it must be natural—which we all know it damn well isn't!" exclaimed Orendal. He was a fair-haired, pudgy man of about fifty, though he looked much older at today's meeting. "Paintings don't simply alter themselves and begin spouting blood."
"So if it's not magical, and it's not natural, what do you think it is, then?" asked Marshal Lowen. Like the Steward, he too was in his fifties, but the similarities ended there; the Marshal was dark haired, tall, and in excellent physical condition for his age. He also looked a great deal more composed than his peer, who seemed to bristle at the query.
"I don't know," said Orendal. "I'm not the Chief Practician." He threw a frosty glare at Mortemus, who ignored him entirely. "Perhaps he would care to join the discus—"
"I don't mean to be crude," interrupted Impa, gaining the attention of the entire Council, "but blood is often a sign of change, readiness, the beginning of something. I think most of the ladies here understand my meaning."
"Why the la—oh. Oh, yes, of course." The Steward colored and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Please continue, Your Grace."
Impa said, "Blood can be a symbol of life, but it can also be a symbol of violence and death. Consider how it appeared—running from the eyes of the King and his daughter. Why the eyes? Why not the nose or the mouth?"
"Truth lies in the eyes," said Marshal Lowen, "which hold the light of our souls and the shadows of our memories."
"I never took you for a poet, Marshal," Orendal said, massaging his forehead.
"He's not," said Impa. "He was quoting a Sheikah proverb." She gave Lowen a polite smile. "And a very appropriate one. Karikadah."
The Marshal bowed his head respectfully. "Kimash'tey."
"Eyes are also a symbol of foresight, of seeing the future," Impa went on. "One might interpret this as a sign that the future of Hyrule is about to turn violent."
"If this were so, then why in the name of the gods have the celestial bodies all been matched correctly, even to this day?" demanded Orendal, rising from his chair and gesturing to the huge map on the chamber wall. "If that bloody painting is indeed a sign, why haven't the Lines been disrupted? Why hasn't the sun risen an hour late and stars shown their winter formations? These are the very anomalies we have been seeking, the ones by which we measure the natural flow of time! Dare I assume that we have been looking in the wrong direction all these years? Do any of you tuly know what form this aberration will take?"
All seven Sages were silent.
"I see. Well, this is a splendid development," Orendal snorted, and dropped into his seat. "Just splendid."
The Council was quiet for a few moments, then Nabooru stood. "I don't know a lot about time," she said timidly, "or stars, or physics. To be honest, this whole business is making my head spin. But I do know something about music.
"You see, the Gerudo use a lot of drumming and rhythms in their music. You should hear the children when they're first learning—it sounds awful! We teach them to keep a steady beat by using a pendulus, which is a wooden box a lot like a clock, only you can set the beat yourself. It's a marvelous learning tool."
"I do hope there's a point to this charming story."
Nabooru gave the Steward an irritated look. "The point is that sometimes we have to calibrate the springs in the pendula, otherwise the beat won't be correct. To do that, we pair a working pendulus with one that might be slightly off, and set them at the same tempo. For a little while they sound like they're in unison, but then . . . one starts to slow. Cl-click, cl-click. That's what it sounds like. And then it becomes a clic-click, clic-click. And soon enough you'll have one clicking on the upbeat and one on the downbeat, completely discordant.
"That's how I think an anomaly would present itself. Not suddenly, but gradually, like two clocks set at just slightly different speeds. We, we wouldn't even know there was a problem right away—not unless we received a sign."
"Yes," agreed Saria's emerald avatar. "Like a tree that becomes sick; sometimes it's hard to tell at first because it takes a long time for the sickness to reach the outside. Unless we're careful, the tree will already be dead by the time its bark begins to fall off. That's what happened to the Greak Deku. We had no idea he was dying until it was too late . . ." She trailed off, looking sad.
"I think that's the best explanation we've heard yet," said Darunia's avatar in a deep, gravelly voice. "Suppose there is a trace of Ganondorf's evil out there somewhere; where would it be and how would we destroy it?"
"We've already consulted the Quest Line," Rauru said, pointing to the map on the wall. Two lines ran parallel to each other—one was complete, covered with ticks and notes, symbols and sketches. The other was just a little less than half the length of the other. "We've determined that the Hero was somewhere in the Water Temple when Princess Zelda discovered the bleeding painting four days ago. If this is a genuine aberration, then whatever caused it must be somewhere at Lake Hylia."
The eyes of the Council were all drawn to the sapphire avatar of Princess Ruto. "Hey, don't look at me," she cried. "My people abandoned that place years ago! Suddenly no one wanted to stay there, and I couldn't blame them, so we closed it up and built a new temple at the spring in Zoraltar. There's nothing left at Hylia except shadows and stale water."
"I still think we ought to send somebody there," said Darunia. "Just to be sure. No offense, your highness, but you may have overlooked something."
"And you may overlook my fine blue bottom when you bend down and kiss it."
"Your Graces, please," Lowen interrupted, although he was desperately trying not to grin. "I'd be happy to send a company of troops to investigate Lake Hylia."
"Can any of your men breathe underwater, Marshal?" Orendal asked.
Lowen frowned thoughtfully. "Perhaps Princess Ruto could supply some of her royal guard to—"
"Nope," she chirped. "No Zora in his right mind would set fin or flipper into that haunted place. Besides, your men would be lost within five minutes."
"Haunted? I thought you said the Temple was empty," Darunia growled.
"It's creepy, alright? Haunted or not, I couldn't get my men into that underwater tomb if I ordered them under pain of death!"
"Let's all settle down, shall we?" said Rauru, pressing his hands together. "I agree with Sage Darunia—the Temple must be investigated . . . and I think we all know who is most suited for the task."
Saria made a small noise in her throat; she pressed her hand to her lips, as if to keep it from spilling out. She looked distinctly distressed.
Rauru continued, "There's only one problem: we don't know where he is. When I last looked in on Link, he was working at Lon Lon Ranch. He has since left, and neither the rancher nor his daughter knows where he might have gone."
Orendal dropped his face into his hands and groaned, "Why couldn't we have just brought him to the castle three years ago? A sign has arisen that the world might be coming to an end, and now we have to perform a kingdom-wide manhunt for a teenager who could very well refuse to help us! I don't think it's—"
"He won't refuse."
All eyes turned toward Zelda. She looked as if she were still dozing in her chair, but it was certainly she who had spoken.
"Your Highness?" said Rauru.
"Link won't refuse. That's not the way he is," Zelda answered, opening her eyes. "But Orendal is right. We'd be wasting time—not our most expendable commodity at the moment—trying to find him. Saria?"
"Yes, ma'am—er, Your Highness?"
"Send word to the young Deku and all who dwell in the forest that we need his help in finding someone."
Confusion creased Saria's face. "But Miss Zelda, Link left Kokiri years ago."
"I know. We're not looking for Link." Zelda gazed at the perplexed faces of her Council. "We're looking for Navi."
Link had traveled the northwestern road many times, mostly in Bazlo Bartlin's wagon. A horse would have been faster than just his own two feet, and Talon had been than happy to loan him a mount, but Link politely refused. He was in no hurry. He was, however, going to buy some red potion at the earliest opportunity; he had tripped at least half a dozen times and gone straight to the ground like a bag of dead meat. His reflexes and equilibrium seemed to be shot lately.
He almost decided to take the south road out to Lake Hylia and do some fishing there, but his increasing clumsiness and persistent feeling of unease was becoming too much for him to stand. He needed medicine or a doctor or maybe a week-long stay at a hot spring, and Treeberg had all three. So he ignored the curious feelings that were dragging him toward the lake and instead went north.
The road to the north woods was long, hilly, and quiet. Link was accustomed to traveling on foot for days at a time, thanks to the few backpacking excursions Bazlo had taken him on, but traveling by himself was something quite different. It was tedious, lonely, and the nights were a little disquieting. Not that Link was afraid of the dark or whatever dwelled in it, but he felt most isolated at night, when the world was silent and sleepy—and there he was, awake and alone. He wished he had a friend or a partner, someone who would always be around to keep him company. He thought of the Kokiri and their lifelong fairy companions, and became a little more depressed.
The only thing that lifted his spirits was playing his ocarina. He would take it out after building the evening fire and breathe his spirit into its wooden void, filling it with music. Its airy voice would stretch off into the darkening hills and up into the sky like an invisible mist. Sometimes he would play songs that he knew—Saria's or Malon's or one of the many tunes he'd heard around Hyrule. Other times he would let his mind wander and his fingers would find the music on their own. One night he played a series of six notes—good notes, very natural, as if they belonged together—and heard a rumble of thunder sound in the clear, starry sky above. His skin had prickled, but he didn't know why.
He arrived in Treeberg after three days' travel, just before sundown. The town was nestled in the pine-covered hills at the base of the Norwoder Mountains, its main thoroughfare a winding, serpentine path of cobblestone that went up and up and eventually turned into a dirt trail that only hunters or mountain climbers used. Link liked Treeberg. It was probably all the trees, and the closeness of the little shops and homes with their rustic stone façades and thatched roofs. It felt a lot like Kokiri. The people here were quiet and polite, except when they visited The Groaning Oak Tavern, whose proprietors made a wickedly potent mead from the honey of their own beehives.
But Link wasn't interested in The Groaning Oak tonight. He was heading toward the Varmaten Inn, and the hot springs around which the town of Treeberg was built. It was a dark, rustic establishment, the closest to living in a tree that one could get; everything in it was made of wood, right down to the sinks. It was an especially cozy place to stay in the winter. Link recalled how he and Bazlo had gotten stranded there two years ago when it had snowed for a solid week and the main road became blocked by a massive drift. The two of them had spent days picking and hacking at the icy mountain holding the town hostage. They finally managed to break through and clear the road, and that evening most of the town had ended up celebrating at The Groaning Oak, where Link had gotten drunk for the first (and hopefully last) time in his life. He didn't remember much, but apparently he had jumped up on a table with his ocarina and started belting out a series of songs that no one had ever heard before—names like Minuet of the Forest and Song of Storms—and they were a big hit. Then he had taken a dive off of the table and hit his head, and Bazlo told him that he had been asking where his hover boots were, he thought he was wearing them, he wasn't stupid enough to just walk off of a table . . .
Link smiled at the memory as he stepped through the door of the Varmaten Inn. The stocky, bearded man behind the counter looked up and smiled. "Ahh, Link! Good time to see again, yes! What for can I do to help you today?"
"Halla, Har-Nilsten," said Link said in Norspak, the language of the peoples of the north. "Uh . . . et roym, tark."
Nilsten was already searching for a room key. "Woan room, yes good! No Har-Bartlin? Wo-are he is?"
"He went to see his brother," Link answered, not even attempting the translation. "Only me this time."
"Ah, brord." The innkeeper nodded seriously. "Important, brordi and sasti, all fomilia. How long to stay, you think?"
Link took the key that Nilsten handed him. "Until I check out."
The man roared with laughter. "Very good joke, Har-Link! You very laughing guy, you know! And always, same room as last time, yes? Best woan in the house. Get you some resting, you looking a little tretbrok."
Link thanked him and headed for the staircase, smiling a little to himself.
Bazlo was right again, he thought. They always remember the ones who know how to say "thank you".
The sun was sinking below the horizon at Kakariko Village, bathing the rooftops with a blazing wash of orange and gold. The creaking windmill soaked up the last rays of light and cast its shadow eastward, the dark shapes of its vanes slowly turning round and round. The shops were closing up and people returning to their homes; bakers and butchers, merchants and masons.
Chief Marshal Lowen, looking much less formidable in civilian attire, made his way through the center of the village. He carried a small collection of late summer wildflowers in one hand. He smiled as three young children barreled past him, answering their mother's call to supper. He could remember being that young and carefree, playing from sunup to sundown. The memory was getting a bit blurrier every year, but it was still there, still good.
He sprang up the steps of the village thoroughfare with the lightness of a man twenty years younger, and followed the path until he came to the outskirts of the village. Rocky mountain walls loomed tall against the sky. Up ahead, built in a grassy corner away from the rest of the houses, was a blocky, two-storey cottage. Its walls were clay, painted with lime. It had a simple, tidy look. There was smoke rising from its single chimney, and a pair of young oaks flanked the stone pathway to the front door. Lowen took a moment to comb a hand over his hair before he knocked, carefully avoiding the red emblem of a weeping eye painted in the center of the door.
There was silence on the other side for a short while, then the door opened. Impa, Sage of Shadow and one of the last surviving members of the Sheikah tribe, smiled wearily at the flowers that greeted her.
"Hello, Lowen," she said. Like the Marshal, she also appeared to be favoring the casual and comfortable today; she wore a short, loose-fitting robe and a pair of calf-length linen pants. On her feet were sandals instead of boots, and her silver hair fell loosely onto her shoulders. For a woman close to a hundred and ten years old, she looked to be in her thirties—and she was very beautiful, in a rugged, mysterious way.
"My lady Impa," Lowen answered, bowing. "I bring you a gift from the fields of Hyrule."
"Pixie weed and red dandelions. How very thoughtful."
"Only the finest allergies for my Lady Sage."
Impa stifled a laugh, her cheeks coloring slightly. She moved aside and bade him come in. Lowen made his way over to the table while Impa searched for a vase.
"So . . . what do you think of the Council's decision?" he asked, taking a seat at the table.
Impa had found a vase and filled it with water from the house cistern. "I think we have no other choice," she said solemnly. "I only wish there were someone else we could send."
"Instead of Ilya?"
"Instead of Link. He's already done enough for Hyrule. Restoration was our responsibility, not his. Asking him to clean up our mistake . . . it's unfair. Tea?"
"Yes, please."
Impa lifted a steaming pot from the stove and poured dark red tea into two cups. Lowen waited to see if she would say more, but she didn't.
"Do you think Ilya is up to the task?" he asked at length. "He's only twenty-one. You Sheikah train for nearly thirty years before sending your warriors into—"
"I know how young he is, Lowen," said Impa testily, carrying the cups to the table and setting one down in front of him. "That's why I've been training him twice as hard as any other student I've had. He just . . ." She sat down in the chair across from him, looking tired and worried. "He's aging too quickly. Like a . . ."
"I know."
They paused to sip their tea together.
"Has he mentioned anything to you about it? He might talk to you more readily than his mean Aunt Impa."
Lowen smiled but shook his head. "No, he hasn't said anything. Do you think he knows?"
"He must suspect something by now. He isn't naïve, not like I was at his age."
"Of course, at twenty-one you were still a little girl."
Impa smiled thinly. "Yes, I was."
They sat in silence for a little while, comfortable enough with one another to not be intimidated by a lack of conversation. Red-orange sunlight slanted through the open windows, drawing sharp rhombuses on the white walls. A breeze meandered through the house, and somewhere outside a wind chime jingled delicately.
"Today is his mother's birthday," said Impa. "He's up in the graveyard if you want to see him."
"Would you like me to go see him, Impa?"
"Yes. I think he . . . Yes, please, if it's not too much trouble."
"Oh. Is he still . . . ?" Lowen gestured to his forearm.
"Probably. Especially on days like today."
Lowen nodded and stood. "Alright. I'll go see what I can do."
"Thank you," said Impa. "You're welcome to stay for dinner, by the way."
Lowen arched an eyebrow. "Are you bribing me with food, Your Grace?"
Impa laughed—a rarity and a blessing. "No! You already agreed to see him. I am merely extending an invitation."
"And a gracious one it is, my lady. I accept."
"Thank you, Chief Marshal."
Lowen's grin faded a little as he gazed at the Sheikah woman with wistful, almost sad eyes. She stared back at him, the Hylian man less than half her age and more than half finished with his life. Then she lowered her gaze and tightened her fingers around her teacup.
Lowen opened his mouth to speak, but the words never came. He sighed, turned, and walked to the door.
The Kakariko Cemetery was the final resting place for members of the royal family of Hyrule. Princess Zelda would have been able to recognize the name on each tombstone and give a brief history of the deceased's relation to her, describing in detail the notable things he or she had accomplished during his or her reign, as well as the cause of death. Most of them had simply died of old age—a few had passed prematurely, and at least one or two had been murdered.
It was unusual—some might call it offensive—that a servant should be interred in the same soil as his masters; King Zurden had defied tradition when he decreed that Ilyana, his personal Sheikah bodyguard, be buried in the same plot as his own family. Ilyana had been Impa's predecessor, a woman who was not only a master of sheikato, the Sheikah Tribe's own stylized martial arts, but also a skilled dokukah—a poison specialist. She had been raised for such a task from birth, learning the color, smell and taste of every poison and toxic plant in the world. Her body had built up an immunity to these poisons, which allowed her to be an effective tool for King Zurden and his new wife, Queen Freyda of Midynas. Tragically, Ilyana had died of a fatal overdose when her son was only three years old. Impa had stepped in as her replacement, and adopted her orphaned child without hesitation.
That child now sat on his legs in front of a beautifully carved tombstone, the gauze sleeve of his uniform uncoiled in his lap. He held a narrow, diamond-shaped blade in his right hand, and was making a series of long cuts on the tender underside of his forearm, close to his elbow. His face was serene, his ruby-colored eyes deep and distant, as if he were traveling to a faraway place in his mind instead of sitting at the grave of his mother.
He collected the blood that welled up from the lacerations and used it to paint the relief of the Sheikah emblem carved onto the headstone. It was large, and it had taken a while to cover it—but that was no matter. He had been doing this for years. White, upraised scars covered his arms from elbow to wrist, a morbid calendar of anger, frustration and grief.
"Hello, Lowen," he said suddenly, adding a final stroke of red to the weeping eye symbol.
Lowen, more than twenty paces away, acknowledged defeat with a shake of his head. "I still find it amazing how you people can do that."
"We always seek to impress," said Ilya, wiping his knife and hastily beginning to rewrap his arm. Not hastily enough—Lowen crouched at his side in time to see the red stains bleeding through the gauze.
"Something on your mind, Ilya?" he asked gently, raising his head to look at the freshly-painted headstone. His brow creased with worry. That was a lot of blood.
"On my mind?" Ilya smiled humorlessly. "The Royal Council has ordered me to accompany the greatest hero of all time on a quest to save the world from certain destruction, and all I can think about is my dead mother. She was all I had, Lowen, and I barely remember her."
Lowen was quiet, his heart a heavy, sore lump in his chest. He had known Ilya since his birth, but had only truly gotten to know him in the past ten or twelve years. There was little reason to be alarmed at his loneliness and confusion, especially back then; it was completely natural. What was unnatural was the way it had stalked him into adulthood, grown claws and teeth, and was now eating him alive.
Lowen eased out of his crouch and sat on the ground. His knees popped loudly; some aspects of old age were difficult to conceal. "Do you know why they chose you, Ilya?"
"Because I was with him on the first quest, and the Council thinks he'll be more likely to trust an old friend. But that wasn't really me, Lowen. That was just my body. Zelda should be the one going with him."
"Even if Her Highness and the other Sages didn't have important matters to deal with, it would be foolish of her to go. The Temple is bound to be dangerous, and if there's going to be a future for Hyrule, it would be best if there's still a monarch around to govern it."
"Which means I am at her disposal yet again. It must be nice to be royalty." Ilya looked aside, scowling. "The worst thing about it," he said after a few moments, "is that I never even got to know him. Zelda speaks of him as if he were a demi-god, but I know nothing about him other than what she has told me."
"Are you afraid you won't get along?"
"I'm afraid he's going to be an arrogant asshole."
Lowen couldn't help it—he laughed. Ilya looked over and started grinning despite himself.
"Look," said Lowen, putting a hand on the Sheikah's shoulder, "I don't know much about Link either, but I don't think he's going to be the arrogant type. What was your impression when you met him at the well last year?"
"So Aunt Impa told you about that."
"She told me you broke the Oath, but I suppose that doesn't matter anymore, considering the current situation."
"He didn't seem that bad," said Ilya thoughtfully. "A little insistent, though. Maybe that's why I said those things; to keep him away." He looked up at the deep purple-blue of the darkening sky. "It's as if I wanted to frighten him, to see this great, legendary hero confused and afraid . . ." He gave an anemic half-smile. "More like me, I guess."
"But there is no one like you, Ilya," said Lowen, meaning it as a compliment.
"I know," he sighed, rising to his feet. He gazed at the tombstones of his ancestors' masters with narrow, bitter eyes. "And maybe that's the root of all my problems."
Torches twinkled through the steamy air behind the Varmaten Inn, giving it a cozy ambiance. Link let out a happy groan as he sank neck deep into the hot springs' milky blue water, digging his feet into the silty mud on the bottom. He felt better already. Any problem that couldn't be fixed with hot clay and sulfur water wasn't really a problem as far as he was concerned.
He basked and soaked for a while, then reached down and scooped up handfuls of the grayish, mineral-rich sludge, clapping it on top of his head and on his shoulders and slathering it all over his face. He grinned with the delighted abandon of a young boy. It felt good to be happy.
Summer's end was the off season for Treeberg's tourist industry, and Link had the whole spring to himself—just the way he liked it. He took his time, soaking and mudding and wallowing and soaking some more, until his fingers and toes began to wrinkle. He climbed out and rinsed off under one of the many natural waterfalls, then made his way up to his room dressed in a robe and slippers, toweling the dampness out of his hair. He yawned, thinking how nice it would be to crawl into bed, sleep until noon tomorrow, then go downstairs and get a huge plate of Mama Nilsten's meatballs with extra gravy and a slab of noetbrott . . .
He opened the door to his room and halted. It was dimly-lit inside, the lantern beside the bed burning low and brown. Its small flame was billowing gently—strangely. Link's eyes moved to the window above the bed. It was wide open, the room full of cool night air. It had been closed when he'd left.
He shut the door behind himself and crossed the room, climbing onto the bed. He closed the window tightly, checking the latch hook. Nothing wrong with it. He wondered if the housekeeper had opened it, but she didn't usually make her rounds until midday. Perhaps it hadn't been properly fastened and had blown open—
As Link gazed at his reflection in the glass, a blue ball of light suddenly flashed behind him, streaking from right to left. He spun around and saw only the empty room.
"Hello?" he said, eyes darting around, looking for some kind of weapon. The closest was his Deku stick in the corner. He slid slowly off the bed and sidled over to it. "If anyone is there, you'd better show yourself now," he declared, grasping the stick and holding it like a bat. "I don't play games."
A blinding orb of blue light suddenly popped up at the end of Link's nose.
"Are you crazy?" the light cried. "You used to love playing ga—"
Link let out a startled shout and swiped at the intruder. At that close range, his left hand came cross his own nose; there was a fleshy snap followed by fresh, hot pain. The ball of light went into orbit around his head, yelling for him to stop and watch out. Link wasn't listening. He was pretty sure he had broken his nose. He took a step backward and stumbled over his boots. He jammed his stick behind himself in an effort to break his fall, but it wasn't enough to stop the momentum of the rest of his body. He crashed to the floor on his back, his right hand sliding down the stick and collecting a few needles of splinters, and smashed his left elbow into the floor so hard that the pain went shooting all the way down to his toes.
"Aauuuuuhhwwww!" he roared, lying on his back and wondering how on earth he had managed to inflict so much damage to himself in such a short amount of time. He raised his trembling hands above his face—one smeared with blood and the other flecked with bits of wood. He let out a dismayed whine.
The blue light was suddenly back, hovering above him. "Great balls of fire, you have never been this clumsy before," it said in a twinkling, feminine voice. "Are you sick? Do you need your inner ear checked?"
Link pulled himself into a sitting position, sneering with pain. A small runnel of blood was leaking from his left nostril, drying on his upper lip. "Who are you?" he groaned. "And what did I ever do to you?"
"Why, Link! Don't you recognize me at all? Not even the teeniest bit?" The glowing ball drew close, leaving a trail of fading sparkles in its wake.
"No," he said, pulling himself to his feet. "I think I'd remember something that caused me this much pain."
"You dunce! It's me, Navi, your fairy!"
Suddenly Link felt a spectacular headache coming on. "Navi. Yes, of course," he muttered, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his robe. "How silly of me. Navi the Fairy. The one I grew up with in Kokiri all those years ago, my bestest friend in all the world, now returning to me from across the rolling plains of Poppyock in the great kingdom of Balderdash. Excuse me."
He limped past Navi and over to his bed, crouching down to drag his leather knapsack out from under it. He pawed through the bag until he found what he was looking for: the bottle of red potion he had purchased at the Treeberg Apothecary that evening. Navi flew over and perched on the headboard, watching as he uncorked the bottle and took a small sip.
"You've changed," she said softly. "You weren't this sarcastic when we . . . when we knew each other. I guess it was foolish to think that you would remember me. It's been seven years, after all."
"Look, fairy," said Link, putting away the potion, "I think you've gotten me mixed up with somebody else, and I'm not feeling too well right now, so why don't you buzz off and go wreck someone else's night, alright?" He stretched out on top of the covers and put his arm over his eyes.
Navi flew down and alighted on his chest. "It'll only get worse."
"You don't say."
"You're probably feeling it, too. Something's wrong but you can't quite place it. You feel strange, don't you? Your head probably hurts and you may think you're coming down with a cold, but you're not, Link. It's something that no potion or magic spell can cure."
Link raised his head. "How do you know this? Have you been stalking me?"
"No. But I've been listening for you. We fairies are excellent listeners, you know. We can hear for miles, and in some places we still hear echoes of things that happened long ago. I heard you playing Saria's ocarina and I knew immed—"
"You know Saria?" Link cried, sitting bolt upright and sending Navi rolling down his robe. "How? Have you seen her? Is she alright?"
"She's fine," grunted Navi, picking herself up. "But that's not why I'm here. You must come with me to Hyrule Castle Town. Only then will you fully understand what is happening to you, and how it can be stopped."
"Why? What's happening to me? Is it bad?"
"If I tried to explain it to you now, your head would probably split. Until we get your memories back, it would be better if you just trust me and do as I say."
"'Get my memories back'? What memories? What do you mean?" Link frowned. "For that matter, why should I trust you? I don't even know you."
"You did, once," said Navi, flying over to where Link's hat hung at the foot of the bed. She settled into it as if it were her home. "And you will again. But first get some rest, we have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow."
"But—"
"Sleep!"
Link, his brow knitted into an expression of utter incomprehension, slowly laid down again and stared at the ceiling. He felt like he was going insane. How could this fairy possibly know Saria, or that she had given him her ocarina? Had she come from Kokiri Forest as well? And what memories had he forgotten? Wasn't that a paradox, forgetting a memory? How could a memory be a memory if it was forgotten? Shouldn't it be called a "forgettery" instead?
Thoughts throbbed in his head like a freshly hammered thumb. This blasted headache. The potion should have gotten rid of it by now. Why was it still there?
Something that no potion or magic spell can cure . . .
Absurd. What ailment existed that could not be cured by medicine or magic?
Somehow, in spite of the ache in his skull and the questions burning in his mind like black, hot coals, sleep came to Link that night—and it brought dreams of shadows and water.