Alarmed at first, wondering what had happened to the killoren, Brindani slowly realized he was alone. Shaking quietly, his hand drifted to the small lump hidden at the bottom of his pack, a single bit of silkroot the pilfering Vaasurri had missed. He sat still for a long time, longer than he might have several days before. The small piece of his will that desired freedom had grown stronger, a little louder in his thoughts, and enough to be heard within the screaming pangs of his need.
In the end though, no matter how much he wanted to listen, that piece of him was powerless. He cursed himself for not throwing the drug away—for not having the strength to get rid of it. It made him weaker rather than stronger in denying it when temptation was so close.
Quietly he stood, leaving the others and winding his way carefully through the vine-trees to hide himself in the twitching forest and the drifting mist. The early morning scents of rain and grass were sharp to his nose, more vivid, though sickening as a sudden nausea gripped him. He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut and choking down the bile that rose in his throat. In that brief darkness behind his eyelids, he imagined the road north out of Caidris, remembered bidding solemn farewells to those soldiers who had chosen to stay in the little town. He and Uthalion had promised to return one day—they never had.
Opening his eyes, he stared at his boots, willing them to remain still, forcing himself to endure the growing pain in his guts as he contemplated turning around. For the first time in years, he feared finding that quiet, lonely place where he could sit and lose himself in the drug’s fog of buried memories.
“Are the leaves helping?”
Brindani gasped as Vaasurri shifted slightly, revealing himself amid the mist and greenery several paces ahead. The killoren’s eyes had returned to a deep green, their darkness drained away sometime during the night, though they held hidden mysteries that still chilled the half-elf to his core. He exhaled slowly, almost relieved at the interruption.
“Some,” he answered hoarsely. “Enough to get by.”
The lie slipped out so casually he almost believed it, like a reflex to protect his need. He considered for a moment taking the words back, apologizing and telling the truth—but he didn’t, still not yet ready to let go.
“A brave thing that,” Vaasurri replied and stood straight, comfortable among the vine-trees. He ignored their stinging thorns, and it seemed they somehow recognized him as one of their own. “Few have the strength to abandon the silkroot so readily.”
“Few have good reason,” Brindani said. “I couldn’t risk leading those things, the dreamers, any closer to Ghaelya than I already did.”
As he said the words he felt himself die a little inside, wishing he could be the kind of person to say such things honestly. A sudden flash of pain ripped through his stomach, and he could almost feel the tiny holes in his gut, eroded by use of the drug. He slipped to one knee, accepting the punishment for his lies, as he fumbled at his pack for one of the leaves Vaasurri had given him. Stuffing it into his mouth, he chewed hard, as if the extra force would expedite the soothing effect of the balm.
“The pain will pass in time,” Vaasurri said quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder before moving to join the others.
“Perhaps,” Brindani whispered through clenched teeth as stars erupted before his eyes, leaving him dizzy for several moments. He looked to the south and could almost feel the nearness of Caidris. He knew they would pass through the town, knew it was inevitable, a marker on his and Uthalion’s journey back to Tohrepur. Standing slowly as the pain faded, he wavered a moment before turning back to the little camp.
He made an effort to keep his hands away from the little lump in his pack, folding his arms and wondering who they might find in Caidris, if anyone. He wondered if he could face them, wondered what he might say, what lies he might invent under the dark of yet another storm in a place that had seen one too many.
Coughing and hacking, drops of blood staining his lips and filling his mouth with a coppery taste, Uthalion rolled onto his side and clutched at his chest until the fit subsided. Rubbing his eyes, he blinked, trying to bring the cool morning into focus as memory of the night returned. A broken stone wall was at his back, wind whistling through a hole that had once been a window. The small camp before him was empty save for a discarded cloak and a couple of travel packs.
Ignoring the pain in his chest, he reached for his long sword and found it gone, taken away at some point during his delirium. Wincing, he sat up, braced his boots, and pushed up on the old wall. His eyes darted wildly around for any sign of his companions or, he dreaded, the shaedlings. A stabbing pain accompanied each breath as he staggered forward, spotting his sword near Vaasurri’s pack. Gripping the cold hilt, he recalled a half-remembered dream of black wings and vicious flames, screams mingling with the recurring images of his old nightmare.
The silver ring sat secure upon his finger, though he wondered briefly if its magic had failed him, letting him sleep while the others fought.
At a slight noise he whirled, leveling his sword at the intruder, only to find Vaasurri staring at him curiously down the length of the blade. Breathing a sigh of relief, he lowered the weapon, as Brindani appeared in the killoren’s wake, confusion in the dark-ringed eyes of the half-elf. Vaasurri scanned the area swiftly, seeming alarmed before looking to Uthalion with a grim knowing stare.
“Where’s Ghaelya?” Brindani asked quietly.
Relief faded, and Uthalion stood with a groan, shouldering his pack and sheathing his sword. His body ached, feeling several seasons older than his modest thirty-six, but he was ready to move as Vaasurri studied the ground just outside the small circle of the makeshift camp.
“Vaas?” he asked as Brindani gathered his cloak, wringing the rain from it. Unsurprisingly, the killoren gestured south through the forest of vine-trees. Uthalion nodded. “Let’s go. If we’re lucky, I know where we’ll find her.”
“And if we’re not lucky?” Brindani mumbled.
“Same place,” Uthalion replied and followed the killoren into the thin, twitching forest of thorny trees. Though he held onto a moment of hope, suspecting they might stumble upon the genasi simply answering the call of nature, he quickly discarded the idea as time passed.
He grew accustomed to the popping and creaking of his aching joints, the growing knot of pain in his back from prowling stooped through the low branches of the vine-trees, but the constant stabbing pain in his chest was much harder to discount. The chalky, bitter taste of the wyrmwind filled each hacking cough, bringing with it memories of the ochre wave washing over and around him. It curled above him, breaking against the rocky wall of the cliff, blinding him, filling his lungs with burning, and somewhere deep inside he wondered if, just for a moment, he’d let it in.
Choking back another surge of bitter bile, he buried the morbid idea and focused on attempting to find Ghaelya’s path, though his skill at tracking was nothing compared to Vaasurri’s.
Breaking through the edge of the writhing grove, lightning illuminated the pale blue morning, flashing across a scattered collection of old, overgrown buildings. The barest thinning of tall grass outlined what had once been a well-used dirt road, now left to the inexorable crawl of the wild, nature reclaiming the temporary haunts of mortals.
Cautiously following the old road, Uthalion stared in wonder at the changes that all the time that had passed since he was last in Caidris created. The well ordered fields of the farmers were gone, gaping holes marked the roofs of buildings on the edge of collapse. The blood-soaked killing ground he’d left behind had produced at least one harvest, the fouled soil feeding people he’d once sworn to protect against the horde out of Tohrepur. He hadn’t acted out of honor or even pity. That the town had been here at all had been his only reason for making a stand, a tactical choice of a defensible position.
Several times after that night, though, he’d imagined himself as the man these people had seen, sword and shield against a horrid host.
�
��She’s here,” Vaasurri said, interrupting his thoughts, “But the weather obscures her tracks.”
Drawing his sword, Uthalion considered the town proper, where the majority of buildings centered around a common square. Standing in the old road, he looked to Brindani and wondered how much like mere ghosts they appeared, haunting an abandoned town beneath the dark clouds of the storm.
“You two stay together,” he said. “But call out if you find her.”
“Where are you going?” Brindani asked.
Uthalion strode through the tall grass wordlessly, weeds clinging to him as he passed. He did not answer the half-elf and knew he didn’t have to as he veered toward the looming silhouette of a large farmhouse just outside the center of town—Brindani knew the place well enough.
Like the lyrics of the nearly forgotten song from his wedding, he felt there was a poetry in returning to the abandoned home of Khault, a rhythmic melody in his decision that he was hesitant to trust at first. Lightning lit the shadowed porch, the house’s dark windows gaping like the sockets of a yellowed skull as Uthalion approached, somehow certain that Ghaelya would be inside, but also unable to turn away from the dark at the bottom of those stairs.
Much like the ethereal song that called to him in the night, he had to know, had to see what summoned him and haunted his nightmares. He twirled the silver ring on his finger nervously and placed a boot on the first, creaking step.
After six long years, he’d finally come back.
Ghaelya felt as if she were floating, the world racing by in a dark blue blur of clouds and lightning. She felt her arms and legs moving, knew she was following something important, but could not focus on the details. Thunder and singing filled her ears, the storm’s rhythm matching a soft, enthralling voice that sounded so much like her sister—save for a harsh undertone, an insistent, hidden melody that bent her will to its own. The inner fires that bonded her to Tessaeril grew stronger, hotter as she rushed to an unknown place, searching for what she must see, the sign that would shape her quest to find her twin.
Dark shapes prowled gracefully amid the straight-edged shadows of dark structures rising from the ground. Dim, glassy eyes watched her from afar, lightning dancing in the lidless discs as a second wave of thunder rumbled from thick throats. The beasts darted out of view like figments in a nightmare only to melt into a hazy background that rippled like water.
She drifted on the warm currents of dream and song, surrounded by lithe beasts and misty rain until a sudden darkness wrapped cold dusty folds around her body.
Her stomach lurched as she slowed and fell forward, stumbling as the song faded away. The dreaming sense, the detachment from her surroundings, was still strong and made her dizzy. Her boots skidded on a dusty floor, and she leaned against rough wood, splinters scratching at the backs of her arms as her pounding pulse filled the silence left by the singing. As she shivered, the scents of lavender and dust grew more pungent and overpowered her senses as she turned toward a tall rectangle of limitless black.
An old door stood open, and the first step of a stairway was illuminated by blue flashes of quiet lightning. A faint whispering drew her to the dark descent, and she stared into the shadowy depths, bleary-eyed and trying to focus as two pinpoints of deep red light flared to life at the bottom of the stairs. The crimson glow throbbed in time to her heartbeat; the whispers, though unintelligible, beckoned her down in pleading tones.
She took the steps one at a time, pausing at each to balance herself on damp walls of wood and soil. Trickles of water ran between her fingers, the swirling energy lines on her wrists flaring at the touch of her favored element. Flashes of light from the doorway shined like stars at the base of the step, reflecting on the still surface of a basement flooded by heavy rain.
The red eyes shimmered beneath the water, blossoming into flowery blooms that pulsed and grew as Ghaelya drew closer. Slowly they retreated, deeper into the dark beyond the stairway, a soft wake rising and lapping at the lowest step.
“Tess?” she called, though her voice was slurred, her tongue heavy and unwieldy in her mouth. Panic gripped her as the glowing blooms dimmed to tiny dots of fiery light. She tried to descend faster, reaching for the light as the whispers grew softer. She stumbled, disoriented on weary legs, and fell toward the glistening surface of the pool.
Clinging to the shadows, Sefir’s clawed hands dug deep into nearly rotted wooden rafters as he writhed and gritted his teeth in the throes of an exquisite agony. His back twisted beyond the range of his old body; bones popped as they loosened and adapted to his changing form. His jaw ached as blunt, useless teeth were pushed aside by rows of sharp, needlelike teeth. Blood trickled through his lips, dripping onto his dark robes as he accepted the Lady’s gifts and gave quiet thanks for her blessings and pain.
Only the palm of his left hand, where he’d touched his mistress’s warm, sinuous body remained unchanged and painless—the mark of her lasting favor and a symbol of his place among the Choir, her chosen.
His skin had grown cool to the touch, smooth and translucent, during his swift journey with the pack of dreamers. Khault, he had mused, would look upon him with pride when they were reunited. But Sefir remained alone, waiting in a web of shadows as a rhythmic torrent rushed through his veins, making him stronger with each new exertion, each act that professed his faith in the Lady’s song and the ethereal beauty of her voice.
Somewhere in his haze of pain he heard footsteps echoing across old wood, clumping on the floorboards as they drew closer, and he grinned widely, his sharp, new teeth scraping unevenly against one another. He hissed quietly in pleasure, his new appendages curling from beneath his robes to grip the rafters above. Puckered slits opened at the base of his neck, flaring excitedly in anticipation.
He studied the dark, searching curiously with his remaining, lesser, right eye, hearing and feeling far more than any mere reflection of light upon a surface could provide. His skin tingled with the slightest movement of air, and every sound thrummed acutely in his sensitive ears.
“How blind I was,” he said to himself, “Fumbling through a dull, lifeless world.”
Slowly he drew his heavy, serrated blade, the sound of steel sliding on leather vibrating through his palm, a beautiful shriek of battle that was his alone among the Choir. He lowered his head as ripples circled outward from a strident clap of splashing water, the sound reverberating from every surface, shaping his view of the murky basement in fine detail.
“This servant has been patient Lady,” he whispered and let the tips of his dangling toes descend into the water as he recalled the prophecy preached by Khault, the purest among the Choir. “Twin shall embrace twin, and all the world will shudder to hear their voices.”
10 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One
(1479 DR)
Caidris, Akanûl
Uthalion crept cautiously into the old house of Khault, gently pushing tall weeds out of the way with the tip of his sword, avoiding deep cracks where the plants had burst through the floorboards. Moth-eaten curtains, once clean and brightly colored, hung in pitiful tatters that blew ghostlike in the wind. Thunder shook the house, and dust rained down from the ceiling. Uthalion braced himself, ready to bolt for the door; but the structure held, groaning with settling noises that darkly complemented the grim weather.
He paused at the sight of a dusty chair in the common room, its cushions moldy and sagging with age. Khault had once sat there, leaning forward and insisting he help the strange warriors he’d welcomed into his home. As stubborn as he was brave, he had refused to take no for an answer, and had immediately set about warning the rest of the town to take shelter. His wife had fretted in the kitchen, gathering food for the hungry soldiers in the last of the day’s light and forcing them to eat what she could spare.
A part of Uthalion smiled at the memory, but his face would not show it as he passed through the common room and into the kitchen. He imagined the strong woman as she’d been as the black clouds had o
vertaken Caidris—and not as she’d been in the days after, prepared for her grave by a stoic husband.
The images were clear and haunting, as though time had stopped that day. But Uthalion felt he knew better, knew the malleable and inconstant nature of time. He placed his hand on the kitchen table, dusty and still standing, and did not measure the years that had passed so much as he bore witness to a ravaging sense of the present.
Slowly and with held breath he looked up, turning to face the dark place just east of the kitchen, at the end of a short hallway. The simple door remained, marked by deep gouges, stained by life and old blood. He wondered briefly if it had ever opened again after the day he’d closed it behind him and put Caidris to his back. Lightning lit its surface, much as it had the first time he’d opened it.
It stood waiting for him, like a hope chest buried in the back of a closet, a box full of memories and years of nightmares. The silver ring was heavy on his hand, its magic having shielded him from dreams of Caidris for so long. There was no waking up this time. Shaking free of hesitation, he crossed the kitchen floor and gripped the door handle tightly, daring himself to throw it open and face the dark where he and his men had hid for three days and nights as the sorcerous rage of a dying aboleth had played itself out.
He stared down into the basement, listening and watching for any sign of Ghaelya in the dark below. Placing his sword in front of him he took one step, then another, forcing himself to return and wondering if he’d ever truly left. Dust and shadows enveloped him in the stairway, occasionally lit by flickering lightning, the old handrail shaken by rumbling thunder.
He paused, feeling the wall and finding the short nub of an old candle still in its rusty sconce. Fumbling in the dark he managed to ignite a tindertwig and light the taper’s wick before continuing his descent. A heavy scent of rust grew stronger as he neared the bottom, the smell reminding him of his grandfather’s basement and his childhood fear of being alone in the place.
The Restless Shore: The Wilds Page 15