But he hadn’t slept in four days, and the silver ring had not left his finger.
“We need to stop,” Vaasurri said at his side, and Uthalion flinched at the break in the long awkward silence in which they marched. “We need to rest, and you are bleeding.”
“Shallow wounds,” he replied numbly. “There’s still some light, such as it is, and we shouldn’t waste it.”
He glanced at the others, searching for dissent. But Ghaelya and Brindani only trudged along, watching the faint outline of the overgrown path and little else. Quietly he cursed their inattentiveness, shaking his head and ignoring Vaasurri’s solemn stare.
“You’re not the only one who’s wounded,” Vaasurri pressed, an edge of anger and concern in his voice. “And not all of us can stay awake for tendays on end.”
“We’re not stopping,” Uthalion said a little louder. “Too far to go, not enough distance behind us.”
“Distance from Caidris you mean,” the killoren replied.
“Not now, Vaas. Let it go,” Uthalion grumbled. His eyes remained firmly on the southern horizon as if glued there, drawn like the needle of a compass. He found, after several tries, that he could not look away from it for long. He couldn’t hear the mysterious song, but its constant pull was unmistakable.
“Fine, keep your secrets,” Vaasurri said and turned off the path, gesturing for Brindani and Ghaelya to follow. “We are stopping. Should you happen to work things out and stop for a moment, perhaps we’ll catch up.”
Uthalion did stop and turned on the killoren angrily, his sword half drawn and a swift rebuke on his tongue, but he caught himself. He let the unspoken words go and sheathed his sword, staring at the leather bracers on his arms, the tired half-elf and the genasi. The storm was passing, and he was no longer the Captain he’d once been. These were not his soldiers.
Vaasurri led them to a growth of rock that curled from the ground like the tail of a burrowing dragon. Uthalion cooled his anger somewhat, though he could not quell the sense of eyes spying upon his back, of beasts crawling through the grass waiting for him to let down his guard. It felt as though they were everywhere, and naught could banish them save reaching Tohrepur and dealing with Khault.
The Choir had been to Airspur at least once, he thought and suppressed a shudder. Might they take my family next?
He shivered and made his slow way to the little camp, not sparing a glance for the killoren as he climbed the curl of rock, seeking higher ground from which to observe the surrounding area.
“I’ll take first watch,” he muttered.
From above he noticed the haunted look on Ghaelya’s face as she cleared an area to lie down, though Brindani, he noted, looked nothing less than a ghost. He pondered this briefly, then looked again to the south, slowly turning the silver ring upon his finger as the muted sun crawled to the western horizon.
Vaasurri sat quietly by the small fire, rubbing the chill from his arms and keeping a worried eye upon Uthalion until well after sunset. The human seemed as though he’d been hollowed out and filled with something else, bearing little resemblance to the man Vaasurri had known in the Spur. Though Uthalion did eventually tend to the wounds on his leg, it was the wounds of an older conflict that the killoren spied in the blank stare of his friend’s face, in the anxious paranoia that started at every sound.
Brindani appeared to have fared little better since leaving Caidris. He was pale and wrapping himself tightly in a wet cloak, trembling with something beyond just the cold. At first Vaasurri had suspected the silkroot, but he had witnessed the addictions of mortals in the Feywild-silkroot having been a popular method of easing the fears and inhibitions of those caught in the fey realms-and the half-elf suffered far differently than he recalled.
The encounter in Caidris had marked both the man and the half-elf in a way that Vaasurri could not fathom, though he suspected both had seen something in Sefir that had been wholly unnatural and yet familiar at the same time. In all his life, even in the fantastic beings of the Feywild, he had never seen anything like the mutilated singer. He had no word for such a thing as Sefir, though he had witnessed sorcerous infections-diseases that affected not only the flesh, but the will and spirit of the infected. Some had worked according to nefarious design; others, occasionally, had spread like wildfire, epidemics attributed to the Spellplague and beasts caught in the terrible blue waves of its chaos.
He shivered, considering their destination, the strange wolflike dreamers, and the thing called Sefir, only one representative of a group Ghaelya had called the Choir. Muttering a curse under his breath, he let the first glimmer of doubt cross his mind. Though he’d been well intentioned when he agreed to help, he doubted one city dweller’s ability to survive for so long, surrounded by such nightmares.
As the idea settled in, darkening his already somber mood, he looked to Uthalion and Brindani. Casually shielding his eyes, he glanced at Ghaelya, dreading what he knew he must attempt. He felt very much alone in that moment, but as the seemingly sole voice of surviving reason, he could not remain silent. Certain that only madness and death would greet them in the ruins of Torehpur, he said what none of them wanted to hear.
“We should turn back,” he said, forcing the words out and shattering the awkward quiet that enveloped them as surely as the darkness of the chill night air.
In truth, he spoke only to Ghaelya, his green eyes watching her reaction closely. She said nothing at first, her expression unreadable as he waited. But it was not her voice that first protested.
“No,” Brindani said, stirring lethargically beneath his cloak, his shadowed eyes reduced to two flickering glints of light in the campfire. “We will not turn back.”
Vaasurri ignored the half-elf, waiting only for Ghaelya to respond. It was her quest he had agreed to, and he would abandon it only by her word. She blinked and looked down, her hands balled into fists as a mix of emotions crossed her troubled features.
“We’ve come too far,” Uthalion said from above, glancing down only for a moment before returning his gaze to the south. “Best to just see it through now, stop these … things … If we’re able.”
Vaasurri glared at the human, wondering what mysterious force had Uthalion in its grip and fearing where it might lead them when all was said and done. He held his tongue for the moment and turned back to the genasi.
“Ghaelya?” he said, and she flinched as if startled from her thoughts. “You heard what Sefir said and saw what he was-or rather, what he had become. I hate to suggest the worst, but your sister-”
“I don’t know,” she said suddenly, fixing him with a hard stare that she quickly broke. She fidgeted with her sword as she prepared to clean the still bloodied blade. “I just … need to think. I need to rest.”
Vaasurri merely nodded, feeling ashamed for broaching the subject. But he knew he would have regretted turning away from what he felt what right, even if it was painful to hear. He sat back, troubled, but willing to wait for the morning light and Ghaelya’s decision. It was some time before he noticed the dark, withering stare of Brindani from across the low flames of the campfire, and he wondered if his suggestion of turning back had already come too late.
In the abandoned, overgrown streets of Caidris, distant lightning flickered in empty windows and flashed in stilled puddles. A soft breeze whispered through the grass and tall weeds, like secrets being shared among conspiratorial ghosts. Water dripped languidly from the rotted rooftops, splashing like soiled tears on the wet ground, as Khault slid sinuously between the empty homes and shops of his former friends and neighbors. With quiet, unnatural grace he approached the battered, broken body of Sefir, and he lifted one of the singer’s lifeless hands, caressing the pale flesh and sharp claws as if comforting an injured child.