The Restless Shore (26 page)

“It was a mercy,” he said by way of answer. The truth of the statement was only superficial, only the long considered idea of a clear-minded hindsight searching for an answer to ease his mind. He wanted it to have heen mw™ hut there

had been none of that in his actions—only fear. He glanced at Ghaelya, unsure if he expected judgment or understanding, but she merely nodded and continued on to the camp, her step a little stronger, and her chin a little higher.

“We’ll go on,” she said in passing, and Uthalion felt a weight lifted from his shoulders only to be replaced by yet another. Despite telling her the truth, he sensed the slow crawl of guilt sliding over his soul like mold. Even his truth had served the echoing will of the song.

Wearily he joined the others and climbed back to the rocky perch he’d held before. At first he was intent on resuming his careful watch until sunrise, but his attention turned to the silver ring, the magic that held sleep and nightmare at bay. It was the one treasure he’d rescued from Tohrepur, and had meant to sell it at Airspur, to make up for the gold he had never received from the Keepers of the Cerulean Sign.

Ghaelya sat wide awake and scanning the grassland, her watery eyes catching the light of a reborn campfire as if flames could not escape her gaze, no matter the direction she turned.

Resigned, Uthalion laid back and secured his sword, stared up at the crimson streaked darkness, and whispered a prayer to whatever benevolent power might be listening. With a slow, torturous pull, the silver ring slipped free of his finger, and many days of lost sleep descended upon him, hungrily dragging him down into a quiet slumber.

11 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One

(1479 DR) South of Caidris, Akanul

Weak morning light filtered through a gray sky, heralding the edge of the Lash.

Rocky storm-motes floated lazily back to the south, still trailing long ribbons of steam like misty roads across the sky. Bright flowers edged their way through the tall grass, their wide petals straining to glean what sunlight they might find peeking through the clouds. Brindani found himself eerily captivated by the brilliant blues and deep reds, as the wind blowing through the grass rasped dryly, murmuring in his ears like a nest of snakes.

He eyed the flat expanse of bleak sky ahead with a contented stare as he strode toward the chill plains of the Lash with a strength and fluid

Ofrfl(ťo ho TlftIJŤ*t folf in HaiIa ovan vaara T’Ka nam

of silkroot withdrawal remained in his gut, though it was quite overshadowed by a growing army of other sensations. Thin strips of skin had begun to peel away from the raw patch on his neck, his hands were dry and colder than normal, and his teeth had begun to ache with a bittersweet throb that seemed to heighten his other senses all the more.

Uthalion and Ghaelya, though they had spoken little since that morning, were closer and more comfortable in each other’s company than Brindani would have liked. He studied the narrow distance between them, their confident step, and the way they scanned the path ahead for danger as if in sync with one another. He forced himself to look away, attempting to banish the unbidden jealousy that clenched his fists and pounded in his heart.

As sure as I die… Our Lady’s will and song… shall walk at your side…

Sefir’s words to Ghaelya echoed in his mind unceasingly, almost like a prophecy he was bound to fulfill. He placed a hand on his forehead and squeezed tightly, as though he might extract whatever influence the dead singer had infected him with. From the corner of his eye he caught Vaasurri watching him carefully. Cursing, Brindani lowered his hand and folded his arms lest the killoren notice the arcing blue veins that had begun to worm their way through his wrists.

Much as he sought to hide and to resist the thing he felt himself becoming, he could not pull his gaze from Ghaelya for long. He was constantly making sure she stayed the path and did not waver. He told himself that all would be fine, that he could make it to Tohrepur, see his obligations through before losing any more of himself to Sefir’s flowery curse. He reasoned that the source of the song, the singer full of wordless promise, might have pity on him, cure his imbalanced mind, and set him free

of the ruins once and for all—but only should he bring the genasi, the twin.

He did not know why, and he loathed the irrational logic that consoled his nobler instincts, realizing the lies even as he constructed them, but clinging fiercely to them all the same. Ghaelya would be fine, and all would be well and forgiven.

As they crossed over into the long, sloping plains of the Lash, Brindani felt the slightest measure of relief, as if redemption had brushed his cheek to let him know he had done well. The dry grass crunched beneath their boots, and a spiraling mass of clouds rolled high overhead. The wind picked up, the cold biting deep through his cloak and leather armor. He sensed eyes watching him, though none could be seen save those of the tenacious killoren.

In the wind, beyond the creaking of sparse, bare trees or the grating scrape of grass bending upon grass, he could hear a whisper of the song. Not in his mind, no longer a ghostly melody barely louder than a thought, but true sound, hidden in the strengthening gale. Repulsed by his own sickening joy at the sound, his stride slowed slightly, and he felt nauseous, torn between what he wished and the thing clawing at his flesh and identity.

********

Uthalion squinted through the palette of grays that dominated the Lash. Even the grass was a sickly green bordering on white. The highland had dipped low by mid-morning, descending on a long slope to the lowland Wash and the wide basin of the Lash. Long, flowing fields of jade gave way to a short, stubbly carpet of muted green that crunched beneath his boots, though the sound was felt rather than heard. The winds of the Lash howled, ripping

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rainstorms that never came. Cloaks were pulled tight, and hoods set low against the wind and the fine particles of dust that accompanied it.

Stark white trees were scattered across the landscape like statues, their bare limbs creaking in the wind. Each bore the same oaklike shape, but their sizes varied. Short, thin saplings shared the ground with massive-limbed behemoths that towered over the skeleton forests. The bone-trees shivered in the wind, their branches clicking and scraping as Uthalion led the way, ever faster, through the land of storms.

Uthalion kept his boots moving, his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword, the cold breath in his aching lungs, and maintained a steady southern course. But he could not escape the chilling horror of one night of sleep.

There had been no dream, no nightmare to which he’d become accustomed. He had been almost ready to welcome the unforgiving dark of the recurring dream, to search the storm for Khault the farmer, ready to confront the memory after having confronted the man, or what had been left of the man. The nightmare would have changed, he felt it in his bones, had he chosen to act differently, to accept that old night for what it was and somehow change the nature of his secret fear that it all could happen again. But the dream that had come to him had not been of Caidris.

In the dark where once had sat the town of Caidris he’d found only a single, familiar cottage. Inside, the cottage— his old home—had been abandoned. The table was set for dinner, a lantern was lit in the common room, and the small bed of his daughter, Cienna, was empty. He’d called for them over and over, as strange red flowers had begun to grow out of the walls. The only answer he’d received, through an open front door which faced a hazy southern horizon, was singing.

“Slow down,” Ghaelya said at his side, struggling to keep

up with his long stride and freeing him, briefly, of the terrifying dream.

“No time. Keep moving,” he replied, unable to shake the thought of his wife and child being dragged across the Lash, of Khault’s vengeful, twisted hands on his family. “Almost there,” he added under his breath.

“Can’t you feel it?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder. “Something is watching us.”

Distractedly, Uthalion studied the flat landscape closer, noting nothing out of the ordinary besides blooming clumps of bright blue flowers—they were hardy blooms for such a cruel environment, but spring on the Akana was typically a study in the unusual. He saw no movement save for the waving trees, the continuous swirl of the racing clouds, and the slow inexorable crawl of storm-motes drifting like smoking mountains just beneath the cloud cover.

“I see nothing. Woman’s intuition perhaps?” he muttered just loud enough for her to hear. He earned a stern glare from the genasi.

Almost ready to dismiss her concern, he did slow by half a step, noticing a small group of darting birds with flashy, metallic feathers. They settled On the ground, hopping and searching the short grass for food, though he noted he had seen none of the birds near the trees. The more he watched them, the more it seemed they avoided the bone-trees altogether. Uncertain as to whether that was call for an alarm, he sensed a sudden hush.

The familiar quiet crawled up his spine, awakening his battle-hardened instincts such that they fairly screamed at him to watch for some kind of ambush. He flinched at the loud screech of a nearby bird, drawing a handspan of blade from his sheath as the flock took to the air, their sparkling wings carrying them farther away from the intruders to their land.

to appear that he had been so focused on the nearness of Tohrepur, he hadn’t considered the consequences of such a proximity.

“What is it?” Ghaelya whispered. “What do you see?”

His gaze darted from the ground to the sky to the ominous trees, searching for the source of his paranoia.

“So close to reaching Tohrepur,” he answered thoughtfully. “We haven’t considered that Tohrepur might reach out for us.”

***

Vaasurri kept an eye on Brindani even as the killoren edged closer to Uthalion. The half-elf s strange fidgeting had subsided suddenly, and Vaasurri wasn’t sure if that made him relieved or even more alarmed. He’d witnessed the stages of silkroot withdrawal before and had expected Brindani to be in some pain to be sure, but his mind should have been clear, and his eyes should have lost the distant glaze of a drug-induced state.

Brindani exhibited none of this and seemed on the edge of becoming an even greater liability than he might have been while on the drug.

“No time for that now,” he mumbled, sighing angrily and turning his attention to their surroundings.

The Lash was a study in contrasts, or so it seemed by the howling winds and static, unyielding trees. But Vaasurri noticed growing changes that would have been easier to catch had he been standing still. He stared intently at the bone-trees. Their bare limbs, crooked and branching, bore no buds upon which leaves could grow, nor did the ground show evidence of the past autumn which might have left at least a handful of such growth. Many of the trees’ roots seemed superficial, clawed into the ground by their narrow ends, but held above the pale grass—an apparent weakness

that the forceful wind should have long since exploited, yet barely a handful seemed bowed or bore any deadfall at all.

“The trees,” he said, startling Uthalion. “I don’t believe they are standing as still as they should be.”

“I suppose any movement beyond rooted-to-the-spot is likely bad news,” the human replied coldly. “If there’s some kind of an ambush here we should keep moving, lure it out, and use the surprise against it.”

Vaasurri cast a cursory glance across the fiat plain, shaking his head.

“We cannot defend this,” he muttered just above the wind.

“All the more reason to take what advantage we can,” Uthalion said. His voice had taken on a commanding, edgy tone, more like the cold soldier he’d been when Vaasurri had found him wandering the Spur. “Any estimate on numbers?”

“Perhaps two, at least,” Vaasurri said as he squinted, trying to make out the trees that didn’t quite fit the natural order of the others. “Though I don’t suspect the numbers mean much until we know what we’re up against.”

Uthalion increased his speed again, forcing Vaasurri and Ghaelya to catch up. Brindani had fallen behind several strides, seemingly oblivious to their conversation. The wind picked up, its howl becoming a rising and falling moan as the Lash’s constant storm whirled faster.

“You don’t remember any of this your first time through here?” Ghaelya fairly yelled as she leaned into the wind, her cloak whipping around her shoulders.

“It was dark,” Uthalion answered, barely loud enough to be heard. “I lost a few men, and didn’t have time to stop and investigate.”

Vaasurri noticed a few trees seemed to have changed their positions, though he couldn’t be as sure as he wanted

blink was confusing as he readjusted and tried to focus.

“How close are we to the ruins?” he asked.

Uthalion’s reply was cut off as a strange clicking sound joined the moaning wind. Random at first, it quickly grew rhythmic and strong, something more than mere chance. Vaasurri had an image of bugs on the march, tiny voices chanting a cadence in a singsong melody.

“Too close,” Uthalion answered at length and tapped the blade of his sword, a reflexive, if unnecessary, signal to be ready as they searched for the direction of the new sound. “Is Brinwithus?”

Vaasurri glanced back swiftly, his hood fluttering across his face as he eyed the trudging stride of the half-elf and shook his head. Something about Brindani made him nervous, and he wondered if the half-elf’s stride was actually moving in time to the clicking tempo on the wind.

“He’ll catch up,” he said, uncertain if his words should be construed as hopeful or a looming threat.

The insectlike clicks became a buzz, whirring with the gale and forming new sounds. They organized themselves yet again into more intelligent, sentient patterns that drew Vaasurri’s attention away from Brindani and back to the path ahead. As he strained to listen, to make sense of the murmuring wind, he heard the slow coalescing of syllables gathering to form a word.