He fumbled at his pack as they pressed on into the southern Spur, unable to find the bottle of spirits he’d stowed away or the wine he’d purchased in Airspur. His lips were dry, his throat ached, and the pain in his stomach was escalating with each step.
The forest changed as they pressed deeper into the plague-changed landscape, its leaves turning from a dappled, ethereal green to intermittent waves of dark, glowing orange. Twisting roots came to life as yellow winged beetles crawled out from their lairs to buzz in clouds around the tree trunks, their wings and the light both bright as flames. The brightness of the display hurt Brindani’s eyes, and he squinted, nodding to Ghaelya when she turned with a look of concern on her face. He waved her on, concealing his near blind search through the pack.
The bottle of spirits was empty and the wineskin held only a mouthful that Brindani gratefully swallowed. He left other useless sundries in his wake as he rummaged and quietly cursed-no drink meant he had no choice. His frustration grew, until his hand closed around a soft bundle wrapped in rough cloth at the bottom of the pack. He breathed a sigh of relief. The bittersweet aroma of silkroot reached his nose, and instantly his headache seemed a little less. The gripping pain in his stomach subsided.
Brindani paused, gasping quietly as he clenched the bundle and strained to listen, hearing the faintest whisper of singing from somewhere in the night. There were no words or any melody he could describe, but just the feel of the sound made him want to possess it for his own. It was gone in a breath, leaving him dazed on the winding path and clutching the silkroot in his fist.
Uthalion never turned from the path, and Ghaelya seemed lost in her own thoughts. Brindani forced himself to remain patient, a twinge of shame resting like a brick in his gut until he could be alone with his demons. He could make it. No one would have to know. His hand trembled as he released the silkroot bundle back into his pack, patting it securely several times to remind himself that it was still there.
Uthalion kept his eyes forward and his feet moving, focusing on their path and winding it just enough to hopefully throw off any further pursuit. Several times he studied a well-hidden, shadowed trench or an old tree within easy climbing range of the upper canopy, but he passed them by, shaking his head. As much as he might like to, he would not abandon his visitors to the not-so-tender mercies of the Spur. He would see them to safety and look forward to their departure. He had no wish to relive the past-as he’d told Brindani well enough the last time the half-elf had come calling. He desired even less to cross the length of the wilder Akana to go and visit that past.
He’d had enough of old times and unwanted nightmares for one night.
Though he stifled the sharp edge of paranoia that pressed against in the back of his mind, he kept a ready hand on his sword as he navigated the maze of the Spur. He eyed the trees, searching for Vaasurri among the leaves, though he suspected the killoren was still busy drawing the howling beasts away from the grove. Within sight of the glow of his abandoned campfire, he breathed deeply and narrowed his eyes. He kept the genasi in his peripheral vision, eyeing her movements closely. She seemed sure-footed, though she had the heavy step of a city dweller. The halfelf seemed as stealthy and as unassuming as ever, but though Brindani hadn’t specifically said they’d been chased, Uthalion knew there was plenty of easier game in the forest than a well-armed genasi and her half-elf escort.
“Trouble,” he muttered. “Nothing good can come of this.”
The smell of half-eaten stew, still warming on the fire, filled the grove. Though he’d eaten less than his share earlier, he found he was no longer hungry, already dreading any further mention of Tohrepur.
CHAPTER THREE
6 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One
(1479 DR)
The Spur Forest,
South of Airspur, Akanul
Uthalion stalked the borders of the grove, searching for any sign of a disturbance with his tracker’s eyes. Finding naught but his own footprints and those of Vaasurri, he calmed a bit, but the nearness of his guests kept his nerves on edge. He wasn’t fond of keeping company and had no intention of entertaining the presence of Brindani or Ghaelya longer than necessary. The genasi stood with her arms crossed, studying the grove coolly, but the half-elf shifted nervously from foot to foot, his gaze darting from shadow to shadow.
“There’s stew if you’re hungry and a safe place to rest by the fire,” Uthalion said at length, turning to retreat to the hidden cavern where he kept his oft-ignored bedroll. He added over his shoulder, “I suspect by morning you’ll be anxious to be on your way.”
“We should talk,” Brindani said, and Uthalion stopped, gritting his teeth.
“We already did,” he replied coldly. “I’m not going back.”
“Lives are at stake,” the half-elf pressed.
“I have no doubt,” Uthalion said. “You’ll have my best wishes and mayhap some cold stew for the road.”
Brindani shook his head and threw up his hands, pacing into the shadows on the northern edge of the grove. For half a breath Uthalion felt a pang of regret, still seeing in Brindani the foolish youth that had marched into battle in the Keepers’ campaign all those years before. He paused and let down his guard for a moment, looking at the pair again with shrewder eyes. Ghaelya sat by the fire, her eyes half-lidded and tired, her boots dirty and stained by her long journey through the Spur. Flames danced in her blue-green eyes, her thoughts apparently leagues away from the unfamiliar forest she found herself in.
The half-elf, though knowledgeable in the wild, seemed as lost as ever, still trying to find some purpose in the world for the life that had been spared in battle. Uthalion had seen it before: the guilt of the survivor, seeking meaning for their existence when others had died in their stead. When Brindani had come to the grove three years before he’d been much the same, wanting to go back, to Caidris and Tohrepur, somehow sure that the Keepers of the Cerulean Sign had failed, that some battle yet remained in which he might die and claim the gift his fellows-in-arms had received.
Looking again to the genasi, Uthalion shook his head derisively. She isn’t a cause to him, he mused. She’s just an excuse.
“Pay him no mind.” Ghaelya’s voice startled him from the thought. “I’m not anyone’s mission or quest or obligation.”
Approaching the fire, Uthalion crossed his arms and studied her, admiring the strength in her set features and tone of voice. “No damsel in distress then?” he asked.
She glared at him a moment, her eyes flashing an unspoken threat, then resumed her long stare into the flames without answering. He nodded quietly and felt slightly more at ease-until Brindani approached from the shadows. The half-elf’s eyes were clear and focused, his earlier shaking and nervousness gone. The smoothness in his step caused Uthalion to stand slightly at guard, his sword within easy reach. There was a fight in Brindani’s stare, and though Uthalion was familiar with the nightmares that stalked in his old friend’s past, he would not let empathy slow the stroke of his blade.
“We’ll talk now, Uthalion,” Brindani said. “I don’t care if you listen or just pretend to, but I know deep down you’re a good man, and we need your help. The Mere-That-Was and all beyond it is a dangerous place; you’ve been there and back, twice.”
Narrowing his eyes, a hard edge of anger settled in the stiffness of Uthalion’s jaw.