“She showed me things,” the genasi continued as she rose to her feet. “Horrible things.”
Uthalion backed away again, as if her touch might infect him, flood his mind with insanity and nonsense, though he suspected it was already too late. He found he could not keep his eyes on her for too long, drawn as they were again and again to the dark southern horizon. The song had left him, but the summons remained, a powerful force that took some effort to delay, much less ignore.
“We should keep moving,” he said and turned back to the camp and the others.
“I–I don’t know,” she replied, her gaze locked on the south as well. “I’m not sure we should. Not anymore.”
“You do know,” Uthalion said, pausing and ignoring the unnatural instinct to look again, the irrational hope that a shining light and unimaginable music might flood across the Akana and set him free of all worry. “Things like these … nightmares, doubt, fear … They do not just go away because you are afraid to face them.” Absently he made a fist, feeling the cool surface of the silver ring on his finger with a twinge of shame. “In the end it all just depends on what you’re willing to live with … or without.”
He cursed the truth that spilled past his lips, sighing quietly and unable to avoid his own hypocrisy. A solemn clarity had settled back into his thoughts, and though it gave him enough to contemplate and wonder what was occurring, it was not enough to cure him of the song’s memory and the familiar tune of his wedding hidden within its strains.
Ghaelya stood still, intently studying the shadowed distances between them and Tohrepur. Uthalion felt as though they stood upon a mystical border, an invisible point of no return. Once they crossed into the land beyond, an elemental plain of storm and frost known as the Lash, there could be no second-guessing, no turning back.
“Tell me,” Ghaelya said. “Have you lived with or without Tohrepur?”
Uthalion stiffened at the unexpected question, a shock of alarm running down his spine as if even the mention of his dealings in Tohrepur might awaken the beasts of his past. When nothing came but a soft breeze hissing through the grass, he lowered his eyes to the ground and considered his answer honestly.
“With, I suppose,” he said and started back to the camp, hearing her fall into step behind him. He dreaded her next question almost as much as he willed her to speak it while the brief calm in his spirit lasted.
“What happened there?”
A breath caught in his throat before he could think of how to answer. He imagined how he might answer the question if it were posed by his wife. He could almost hear Maryna’s voice asking it and wondered if, at some point during the time he tried to be her husband again, she actually had. He pictured the narrow, cobble-stoned streets of Tohrepur, the scent of salt-stained stones from a time when water lapped at a small fishing harbor on the north end of town, and the seemingly kind guards that had met them at the gate.
“I … We-Brindani and I-were soldiers once, sell-swords marching to the ruins under the gold-promising banner of a greater cause,” he started in a rush, forcing the words out before he could change his mind. “We were to help them battle an aboleth, ancient and far older than those nightmares freed by the Spellplague.” A phantom smell of smoke burned in his nose as he recalled the trailing plumes across the city, the screams, and the chaos, “Even in death its unsuspecting thralls … just people, twisted and corrupted … The entire city came for us. I called a retreat and never looked back … until Caidris. We met them in Caidris.”
The last he spoke in a hoarse whisper. The memory of that last day was vivid but lifeless, like the mechanical working of a windmill grinding grain. He had done his job and little else-his heart had not fought with him, but remained injured nonetheless.
“You killed them,” Ghaelya said flatly.
Uthalion did not respond, focusing instead on placing one foot in front of the other, as mechanical as once he’d been. He rarely missed the heartless mind-set of the sell-sword, his wife having cured him of his ways for a time, but it had served him well when work needed to be done. He stopped when the faint glow of dying embers came into view.
“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 been mercy, but 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.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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 grace he hadn’t felt in days, even years. The pain 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.