Closing his black eyes, Vaasurri placed his hands upon the rock, listening to the distant sounds of the Akanamere stirring, and searching for his place in the coming day. All thought retreated as the wild caressed his spirit, shaped his instincts, and whispered secrets to his fey soul. His heartbeat slowed to the crawl of a mountain through time, as stilled as the tide that had once filled the Akana.
His eyes flew open, and his heartbeat sprang to a quick beat again. He searched the rock walls high above for dusky lairs, where the threat he sensed might hide from the bright day. A threat despised the season, that feasted on death and hated the hope of spring, a betrayal to all it had once held dear.
His senses sharp, Vaasurri looked upon the world with the same coal black eyes as the previous day. His spirit remained prepared to act as the cold left hand of nature’s wrath. As thunder rumbled ominously in the south, the killoren could almost hear the hidden fiends above, clawing anxiously at the rock and whispering dark prayers for a day that would see no sun.
Morning had never been his element.
Brindani rubbed at his eyes encrusted with grime, opening them gingerly. Every joint in his hand felt swollen and creaked as he flexed his fingers, stretching out the exhaustion embedded in his bones. A single stab of pain doubled him over, and he clutched the tender layer of muscle over his stomach. It throbbed, though not for long, and he breathed easy as the pain faded to match the ache in the rest of his weary body.
He crawled out of the small cave, careful not to wake Uthalion or Ghaelya. Vaasurri was nowhere to be seen. He took shallow breaths and crouched out of sight of the others, troubled by the killoren’s absence and dreading the blazing light of day to come. He looked up to the land that some called the Silent Tide, to the great walls of rock curving like waves to crash down upon the ravines and valleys of the Wash. A constant breeze traveled the labyrinth of stone, creating a sound not unlike the ocean. The sensation of being trapped in a twisting seashell would have been unavoidable if not for the trees and the sky overhead.
The smell of smoke and char was still heavy on the air, and his eyes inexorably drifted up to the edge of the ravine, seeing nothing of the abandoned farmhouse where he should have died-an honorable death stolen away by flame … and Uthalion.
“Feeling better?”
He jumped at the sound of Vaasurri’s voice, and bright stars flashed before his eyes for several heartbeats as he calmed, scowling unhappily.
“Not a bit,” he answered hoarsely. “And I don’t expect today’s march to help much.”
“Better then,” Vaasurri replied and crawled down from his hiding place atop the cave. He crouched several strides away and fixed the half-elf with a dark stare. “You should be dead.”
“Thank Uthalion for that,” Brindani said. “He pulled me from the house-”
“No,” Vaasurri interrupted. “You should have died days ago, longer perhaps.”
Brindani shook his head, grinning in disbelief as he pushed back against the rock wall. He closed his eyes and cursed himself for not dying, a more preferable fate to the inevitable lecture he heard in Vaasurri’s voice.
“Don’t sound so disappointed,” he replied. “There’s chance yet.”
“Undoubtedly,” the fey said. “But you got rid of the silkroot, didn’t you? Perhaps you’ll discover a cleaner death than it would have provided.”
“How did you …?” Brindani asked in shock.
“Its smell is faded,” Vaasurri responded and pulled a pouch from beneath his cloak, tossing it at Brindani’s lap. “Leaves from the same plant and odorless. Chew on them as you would the root-they’ll help with the pain.”
Brindani stared at the pouch for long moments before picking it up in his shaking hands, ashamed for the horrors he’d unwittingly aided in following the group. Though as much as he wished to be free of his addiction, it was a weak will that he could wield against it, and he knew it would break. Just the thought of it churned his stomach anew, and the slight sensation of pins and needles in his gut caused him to gasp quietly for air.
“You won’t tell the others?” he asked.
“Not her, if that is your wish,” Vaasurri answered solemnly. “But Uthalion already knows.”
“How?”
“He doesn’t sleep,” the killoren said, turning back to his perch upon the rock. “He’s been listening to us all along.”
Thunder rumbled ever closer from the south, punctuating the growing dread in Brindani’s heart as Vaasurri drew his strangely carved bone-blade and studied the approaching clouds. Brindani stared at the weapon, blinking in disbelief and certain he’d just seen the patterns on the sword shift and squirm into new designs. Before he could look closer, the killoren nimbly leaped down to the spiraling cave mouth.
In the spaces between thunder and the growing wind, Brindani briefly caught the sound of fluttering wings echoing through the valley even as his hand absently traced the rounded edge of a small lump at the bottom of his pack. Wrapped tightly and tucked away, it called to him like an old friend-out of sight, but not out of mind.
Ghaelya awoke to rough hands shaking her shoulders, curses, and hushed whispers full of quiet alarm. Rising, she brushed Uthalion aside, glaring at him blearily in the murk of the little cave and squinting over his shoulder at the darkness outside.
“I thought we were waiting until dawn,” she said.
“Change of plans,” he replied, placing a finger to his lips and crawling outside.
Her heart thumped in her chest as she collected herself and followed the human. She was greeted not by the yellow light of a rising sun, but the flashing white glow of lightning across a dark sky. Vaasurri stood sentinel at the edge of the descending valley, his sword in hand, studying the silent tide of curving walls with Brindani. As she and Uthalion joined them, Vaasurri merely nodded and took off at a quick jog.
“Let’s go,” Uthalion whispered.
She cursed them for their mystery, but respected the need for silence and fell in step. Though tired and still waking up, she quickened her stride at the sound of small rocks rolling down the sides of the valley, bouncing off trees, and trailing lines of disturbed dust. Thunder obscured much of what she strained to hear, but occasionally she caught the sound of scratchy whispers echoing in the dark behind her and high-pitched birdlike calls that kept her moving. She drew her sword, searching wildly for any sign of approaching danger, seeing naught but the flickering shadows of trees in each flash of lightning. The smell of rain and wildflowers carried easily on the quickening breeze of the rolling storm, a soothing scent that did nothing for the growing anxiety in her white-knuckled grip on the broadsword.
Brindani ran just ahead of her, his slight limp becoming more pronounced as the morning wore on. As her own legs grew tired of running, she caught herself huffing loudly for several breaths, receiving a concerned, yet warning look from Uthalion. Biting her lip, she bit back the angry retort that slipped quickly to the tip of her tongue and breathed evenly, passing the human and sticking close to Vaasurri.
Dark shapes flitted overhead, blurs of shadow darting from one side of the valley to another, and she ducked reflexively, gooseflesh rising on the back of her neck. With her eyes up, she stumbled a few times, cursing and slowing down, unable to divide her attention in the dark lest she break an ankle. The dim disc of a late morning sun teased with enough light to make out vague shapes and shifting shadows, but little else-just enough to keep her warily watching and wondering when their pursuers would grow more bold.
“Eyes forward,” the killoren said grimly. “Seeing them won’t help.”
“What happened to being quiet?” she asked, breathless and feeling what seemed to be the first drops of a cold rain fall on her cheek. Brushing at the moisture, she felt it stick, fibrous and icy, like a cobweb covered in frost. She pulled it away in disgust, thin filaments of shadow sticking to her fingers.