“No, Rorke!”
One fist clasping at her heart, the druid listed toward me and cried, “Anroa strike me down where I stand if that be true. Each word I said to you, Rorke, I meant.”
“Just as you meant that crossbow bolt you would have struck me with.” While her delicate jaw clenched in frustration, I scanned the room. “Do you still have the bow?”
“They destroyed it before my very eyes when I was ambushed—I returned here alone, leaving Grimalkin and Hildolfr to do as they pleased with the blasted Scepter of Weltyr and all the reward money. I wanted to find you, Rorke. I couldn’t sleep through the night for thinking I’d abandoned you that way.”
“For knowing Valeria as I am now blessed to, I sometimes think it was a good thing that you made such a mistake…and, of course, all our mistakes are guided by the Wanderer.”
I withheld my sigh through some miracle of self-control, assessing, as I did, meek Branwen. She had often barely tolerated my spiritual pontification and now seemed no more pleased than usual with such a lecture, but more patient—perhaps knowing its conclusion would be in her favor. I went on, sliding a hand around Valeria’s waist to earn a surprised glance from both elf women, dark and light.
“I forgive you, Branwen; in the end, none of us can truly help what we do. Even within the realms of free will, our actions are paradoxically precisely as Weltyr has allotted for.”
Her lips briefly pursing, as they would when she was set to accuse me of patronizing her during our religious discussions wherein I would posit to her the teaching that all deities were simply lesser emanations of Weltyr. Valeria, being herself a holy woman, had not taken offense to such a notion when I brought it up; but I have noticed that the less someone understands their own religion, the more inclined they are to take offense when it is challenged. Branwen was a creature of nature, and her goddess, Anroa, was the goddess of Love—that one and only ruler of those who threw themselves into the bosom of life without sparing much thought for what came after. The high elf lived for pleasure…a trait she had in common with her Nightland-dwelling sisters, even if she was not quite as open about it as they were.
But Branwen was not open about many things—not with the average individual. Still on the defense, she assured me, “If it’s true that Weltyr gains any reward from the wills of men, then it is a very mysterious reward, indeed. After all, Hildolfr and Grimalkin have still made off with that Scepter.”
My ears perked along with my heart. There was hope! The Holy Order of the Wanderer had sent me on a quest to liberate the relic from the slimy grasp of the spirit-thieves—a task for which I had recruited the one-eyed ranger Hildolfr, the brutish but cunning dwarf Grimalkin, and, of course, sensual and astute Branwen. With my companions having taken the scepter from my grasp, I was unable to be fully confirmed to the Order…and, out of my own personal sense of shame, unable to return to Skythorn, the location of the temple that raised me.
And from the start of my ordeal among the durrow, that had been the most painful thought of all: the possibility that I was doomed to remain in slavery, unable to ever again see Skythorn.
Carefully nursing the potential of completing my quest after all, I asked, “Where have they gone?”
“Grimalkin’s plan was to take the Scepter back across the sea and sell it in Rhineland for a hefty reward.” While she named the country of the dwarves, I ran my free hand over my jaw. We would stick out like sore thumbs there…and dwarfs were not known for their happy dealings with humans. The high elf went on, “The money didn’t tempt me near so much as the thought of your well-being.”
Seared as I still was by her betrayal, I wasn’t sure I could trust these sweet words to any extent. All the same, the possibility of reclaiming the Scepter enthralled me. Studying Valeria’s dark and thoughtful face as though it might hint at the clarity I needed, I swept a few strands of white hair behind the curve of her long ear, then made the Materna a suggestion.
“There are many in the Temple of Weltyr devoted to scrying the locations of lost artifacts. Usually such feats are performed only for Weltyr, but surely the prayers would be equally adept at locating the relics of any god. What say you? We could retrieve the Scepter of Weltyr and, upon its delivery, request the Temple’s assistance in locating your ring.”
The Materna studied Branwen as though for hints of deception, but had there been any, the elf would have expertly concealed them. Thus, without the ring by which she read the intentions in the hearts of men, Valeria was forced to divine these things from the same body language as the rest of us. Obliged to trust fair Branwen, if only due to my willingness to commit to the same for now, Valeria rested her hand upon my heart.
“If you, Burningsoul, believe such a task will expedite the discovery of Roserpine’s ring, I will do it gladly…and, after all I put you through while you were in the Nightlands, perhaps it is the least I could do.”
My hand fit to the warm, soft curve of her cheek on instinct. “It was no hardship to serve you, neither as guard nor as lover.”
With only the slightest thrill for the thought of jealous Branwen watching us, I bent my head and pressed my kiss to Valeria’s sighing lips. The sweetness of her mouth was a nectar on my tongue, and I sighed with pleasure to taste it in the aftermath of
