Gods no, he thought, the dark was not deep enough.
“How are you feeling?” Vaasurri asked, crouching predator-like upon a low rafter. “Is there much pain? I imagine so, and more to come, surely …”
“Wh-what do you mean?” Brindani stammered, averting his eyes from the black stare and trying to appear casual as he gathered his belongings, stuffing them back into his satchel.
A soft bundle thumped into the dirt near his feet, the scent of it unmistakable. It caused his mouth to water, though his lips had never felt drier. He didn’t want to look at it, he didn’t have to; but he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t hold back the needy fixed stare that the pain in his gut and the ghostly voices from his memory demanded. He faced the silkroot, no longer alone, and saw it for all that it was: guilt, shame, secret, and addiction wrapped up neatly in a small leather knot.
“I smelled it just last night,” Vaasurri said, prowling down a thick support beam. His long black hair did not obscure the menacing gleam of his pitch-dark eyes. “You must have nearly used it all by the time Uthalion found you in the Spur, else I would have detected it earlier. But your pack has the odor of silkroot-faint, but it’s there.”
“What do you know about it?” Brindani growled angrily through his pain.
“Some,” Vaasurri replied “Speeds reflexes and induces a temporary sense of euphoria, it’s also known as Knight’s Veil, Styxroot, Velvet, and most commonly Widow-Pin … A name I’m sure you are quite familiar with, correct?”
“None of your business,” Brindani answered defensively, though a fresh wave of needlelike pains flowed through his abdomen. “I can manage just fine, no one needs to-”
“Oh, I am afraid it is my business,” Vaasurri said ominously, the glossy blade of his curved bone-sword coming into view. “You see, out on the Akana the silkroot is also known as Wolfbloom. The stems mark any passing creature with a scent that can be tracked for miles.”
“What are you saying?” Brindani asked as his hand closed over the soft bundle lovingly, easily resisting the almost non-existent urge to crush the small lumps within and hurl them into the dark.
“I’m saying”-the killoren crept closer-“that you have betrayed us all.”
“Wh-what?” Brindani stammered again, clutching the silkroot to his chest. The scent alone eased his mind and teased the agony in his stomach. “N-no, I haven’t-”
He stopped short, his breath quickening as the sound of eerie howls joined the whistling wind through the windmill. With a flash of the bone-blade and a puff of disturbed dust the killoren was gone, disappearing into the night outside and leaving Brindani alone to stare in horror at the leather bundle in his fist even as the familiar, needling pangs worked their way through his gut.
In the notebook laid limply across Uthalion’s lap, a half-drawn bloom of lavender had been neatly sketched out in thin lines of charcoal. Tiny notations on the page detailed the region’s conditions, the season and current weather, the consistency of the soil, and the sweet scent of the bloom-a smell that somehow, at some point during the drawing, had become important to him, almost familiar.
The tight handwriting scrawled away into meaningless lines near the bottom of the page, forgotten as he stared out the window, peering into the southern darkness. His eyelids felt heavy, but would not close, fluttering as the whispering trickle of song of the last few nights became a steady stream. The corners of his mouth curved into a smile as the familiar tune was made clearer, and the memory-one of his wedding day-more distinct.
Maryna’s oldest niece had sung before the ceremony, an old rhyme that spoke of destiny and promise, of a warrior lost and lonely, a love taken away, and a promise of peace at the end of the road. Paralyzed by the tune, part of his mind squirmed at the memory, like the lucid moment of a dream before waking up, when the terrors of a nightmare are drawn clear and escape is but a gasping breath away.
The girl’s voice changed, growing deeper as the lyrics slurred and shifted, digging rhythmic claws into his waking mind, dragging him back from the edge of escape. Though he struggled not to hear, he was powerless as the rhyme overtook his senses in a soothing grip of thundering chant.
Uthalion blinked at the last words, flailing his arms as he pushed away from the window. He sat heaving deep breaths as the voice faded away. A damp chill passed through him, and he ran shaking hands through his hair, furious at having been caught unawares again. Calming himself, he lowered his arms and stared hard at the sorcerous silver ring on his right hand, somehow certain that he’d been betrayed by his own lack of sleep. Endlessly awake by his own design, he hesitantly gripped the ring, wondering if he might be able to trade beguiling song for recurring nightmare.
As one held breath led to another, the decision was made for him as the howling voices of the dreamers reached him, close to cresting the top of the long slope into the Wash. A hand fell on his shoulder, and his frayed nerves reacted swiftly, gripping the slender arm in a tight grip as his free hand drew a handspan of blade from its sheath.
Ghaelya looked down at him in surprise, wrenching her arm free as he recognized her and loosed his grip. He made no comment, staring at her, troubled, as the eerie lyrics of the song repeated themselves in his mind.
Bring her to me, bring her to me …
He shook his head and stood, stretching his legs as he joined her by the window and studied the edge of the tall hill, searching for movement.
“They’re here,” he whispered solemnly.
“Hmph,” Ghaelya replied, glancing at him with a wry smile. “Keep up the good work.”
He ignored her derision, though he’d earned it well enough.
“How soon do you think?” she asked quietly.
The trailing edge of the last dreamer’s howl echoed once from the southern valleys as Uthalion listened. A shadow prowled silently into sight, slowly rising into the silhouette of Vaasurri, his sword in hand at the foot of the porch-steps.
“Soon enough,” Uthalion answered grimly, drawing his own sword and quickly shouldering his pack. “Be ready for a fight.”
“Not sure I know how to be otherwise anymore,” she replied with a sigh and stepped outside.
CHAPTER NINE
9 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One
(1479 DR)
The Akana, Edge of the Wash, Akanul
The weight of the heavy blade was comfortable in her hand. The thought of resistance on the honed edge, skin and muscle giving way, perhaps the grating of bone on steel, was easier to contemplate, simpler than the chaos of the dream. Sleek forms, pale shadows in the moonlight, prowled down the slope slowly, cautiously, as if they were waiting for something. Uthalion’s boots clomped through the farmhouse as he created a racket, throwing things against the walls, muttering to himself all the while.
“What’s he doing?” Vaasurri asked as he joined her on the porch.