“Little to tell really,” she sighed. “Though I expect they are less the men they present themselves as and more … well, something else. They appeared in the city streets one day, only in the lower districts, with bandages around their hands and dirty robes. Their every movement, their smell, and the places they would frequent, made them seem little more than beggars. But their voices …
“I was sober the first time I heard them singing, and the sound chilled my soul. It was like messengers from the gods pronouncing some judgment upon all who listened.” She shuddered at the memory. “After that, I avoided them at all costs, wishing they would move on as quickly as they’d arrived. But then, as they enthralled groups of those that found some kind of hope in their songs, Tessaeril began to listen as well.”
“Did she go with them willingly?” he asked.
“What are you implying?” she returned sharply, but she calmed herself, seeing genuine curiosity in the killoren’s eyes, “I’m sorry. No, I don’t believe so. Their songs are strange, very … persuasive. They escaped the city with a dozen other citizens without alerting even the sharpest-eyed guard.”
Vassurri nodded and seemed to consider the tale as they journeyed deeper into the Mere-That-Was. Occasionally she glanced over her shoulder, expecting at any moment to find the dreamers-or even the Choir themselves-bearing down on them, calling her name. She’d expected the killoren to press her on the subject and was relieved that he did not. She was still trying to work out for herself why the Choir would come back for her. As the day wore on, and the sun neared the western horizon, she feared the evening’s dream would be stronger. She found herself both dreading and looking forward to the strange nightmare and the bewitching song.
“Perhaps I shall learn more tonight,” she whispered, watching the sun slowly turn a deep orange.
“Pardon?” Vaasurri said, overhearing her.
“Nothing, just thinking out loud,” she answered quickly, still not entirely comfortable with the idea of sharing her dreams with anyone else. “What about Tohrepur?” she asked. “Has Uthalion ever mentioned …?”
“Not much,” he said as they looked to the human, still in the lead and forging a winding path through the towering crystals. “He’s not usually one for speaking about that part of his past lightly or at length.”
“So I gathered last night,” she said, recalling his argument with Brindani. “It’s something he and the half-elf have in common.”
Uthalion stopped at the other end of a natural bridge of land, both sides of which dropped down into the shadows of the lower plains. He paced out an area, on the southern side of a hill, and let his pack fall to the ground. The sun had just dipped into a deep red edge on the western horizon, and the sky was beginning a slow purpling toward twilight.
“We’ll rest here,” he said, studying the area as Ghaelya surveyed the hill and cast yet another worried glance to the north. “Cold camp only, and we’ll break before dawn … make as much distance as possible between us and them before hitting the Wash.”
The statement reassured Ghaelya as she knelt in the grass and eased her legs, but she kept a nervous hand on her sword all the same. The dreamers had surprised her more than once with their speed, and she wasn’t quite ready to trust being out in the open after dark.
“I should start a fool’s fire,” Vaasurri said and shouldered his pack again. “Draw them off if they get too close, and the smoke could help cover what scent we’ve left behind.”
“Your ears will serve us better here,” Uthalion said. “I’ll take Brindani with me, and we’ll set the fire.”
Brindani paced at the edge of the site, staring west and keeping his head low. Vaasurri reluctantly nodded and rejoined Ghaelya. The human took what supplies he needed and turned to leave, though Ghaelya noticed Brindani took his pack, refusing to let it get more than an arm’s length from his shoulder.
“We’ll be back soon,” Uthalion added. “If anything happens light the last of the flash-torches. We’ll spot it easily in the dark.”
With that, the two set out, quickly disappearing among the hills and the crystals. Ghaelya watched the last of the sunlight slowly drain away as she chewed absently on dried fruit and a strip of salted venison. She tasted neither, her gaze darting at every sound, and her pulse jumping at every imagined movement. Scarcely a night had passed in several days when she hadn’t been running or hiding from things in the dark. And when she had managed to sleep, the dreams had left her restless and shaken.
Any rest at all, she reckoned, would come uneasily and be spent fitfully. When Vaasurri mentioned taking first watch, she pretended not to hear him, listening only for the haunting howls of the dreamers and the beguiling voices of the Choir.
CHAPTER SIX
7 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One
(1479 DR)
The Akana, North of the Wash, Akanul
Moonlight stretched dim shadows across the ground as Uthalion eyed the dark edge of the cliff on his left, its sheer drop disappearing into an endless ocean of black. Taking a deep breath, he beat back the imagery of teeth and tentacles swimming through the inky expanse of shadow, tore his eyes away from the limitless fall, and focused on the task at hand. Brindani remained in the lead, his half-elf eyes more suited to the pale light of the rising moon, though his occasional stumbling too close to the cliff made Uthalion more than a little nervous.
The half-elf maintained a strange silence, his heavy lidded gaze wandering lazily from one patch of ground to the next as they searched for bits of deadfall. His skin was pale, and a constant sheen of sweat caused his forehead to glisten, a sure sign of fever. Uthalion said nothing, allowing Brindani his show of strength, a denial of whatever sickness had overcome him. But the farther they journeyed into the dark, the more he wondered if Brindani would make it back under his own power.
Uthalion wondered at the myriad of poisons they might have come in contact with since leaving the grove. None of them matched the symptoms Brindani was displaying. Very few of the Akana’s toxins left a man able to even walk, but walk the half-elf did and purposely, as if he were searching for something in the dark. Slowly, Uthalion increased the distance between them, feeling uneasy and keeping Brindani just within sight.
Low stone walls, overgrown with grass and weeds, rose from the ground on their right. They increased in number as the pair passed into a city fallen long before, victim to either the Spellplague or the war with the aboleths who had once laid siege to Airspur.
Though there were no signs of the nightmarish beasts now, Uthalion still gritted his teeth at the thought of them lying in wait, keeping his sword handy and a careful eye on the seemingly oblivious half-elf.
The remains of the town rose on buckled earth. Cresting its top, Uthalion turned north, studying the height and the slow rise of land leading up to the far distant Spur.
“Stop,” he called to Brindani and laid down his bundle of wood at the top of the hill. “This place will do.”
The half-elf paused, wavering unsteadily on his feet for a moment before turning back to the center of the clearing. He dropped his meager pile of deadfall along with the rest as Uthalion arranged what they’d collected into a suitable stack for burning. Brindani stood watching for a heartbeat, then turned back to his mysterious search of the ground.
“Are you really going back?” Brindani called over his shoulder as he paced the clearing in slow circles, kneeling in places to inspect something before moving on. “Or is this just a show? Some kind of honor … or obligation …”
Uthalion sighed angrily, breaking a long stick over his knee and continuing his preparation of the fire. He ignored the half-elf and cursed the desire to speak at all to one another, preferring to journey all the way to Tohrepur and back with nothing but dead air hanging between them. The very idea calmed him, but Brindani either did not share the sentiment or did not care.