It’s almost as though he was drunk before, and now he’s sober again, Kevin thought.
Maybe that wasn’t so bizarre an idea. After all, for a Dark Elf, a necromancer used to a grim world of sorcery and death, being suddenly thrown into the middle of so much vibrant, busy life really must have been intoxicating!
As the bardling retrieved his lute from the pile of dancing girls’ gear, he heard Naitachal mutter:
“Powers, I’m glad that’s over.”
“I thought you were enjoying yourself.” Eliathanis’ voice was cool with disapproval.
Naitachal glanced sharply at the White Elf—”Up to a point. One moment more, though, and I think I would have thrown up.”
“From fright?” Kevin asked in disbelief.
“Hardly!” The Dark Elf gave him a fierce little grin. “From a surfeit of sugar!”
As the party rode up the gentle slope from the river plain in which Westerin lay, Kevin suddenly reined in his mule. “Lydia, if we have to retrace all our steps back to Count Volmar’s castle, we’re going to waste too much time.”
“Agreed. Besides, I don’t want to risk going through that gorge again, either; one ambush is more than enough, thank you.” The woman hesitated, chewing thoughtfully on her lip. “I do know a much shorter route. The only thing is ... well—.. let’s put it this way:
anybody have any objections about riding through a battlefield?”
“A what?”
“An ancient one. I’m not even sure what the whole thing was all about, it happened so long ago. Shouldn’t be anything left to bother us.” She shot an uneasy glance at the Dark Elf. “Unless, of course, someone tries to disturb things.”
Naitachal’s eyes glinted coldly. “ I am not in the habit of rousing that which should not be roused. Lead on.”
Kevin struggled against the urge to keep looking over his shoulder. This was ridiculous! An easy ride, a nice, bright, sunny day, a smooth, grassy meadow stretching out before him without any obstructions at all and a splendid array of mountains in the distance there was not the slightest thing to fear.
Then why oh why was his mind insisting on sending these constant thrills of nervousness through him?
“Naitachal,” the bardling asked uneasily. “Is this ... was this ...”
“The battlefield?” The Dark Elf’s voice sounded strained and distant. “Yes ... you would sense that, too, wouldn’t you. Bard-to-be that you are? So many lives lost, human and Other ... I can feel their auras even now, calling to me ....”
“Well, don’t answer them!” Lydia snapped, and Naitachal blinked like someone suddenly shaken from a dream.
“No,” he said, and then more confidently, “no!”
But as they rode on across the meadow, the others could see shudders racking his slender frame. The Dark Elf was plainly fighting some terrible inner battle of his own, struggling against all the long, cruel years of childhood conditioning screaming at him, You are a creature of the Darkness! Leave the light behind you!
Unexpectedly, Eliathanis brought his mule alongside. “Take my hand,” he said softly.
“What—”
“Take it. Hold fast. Yes, like that. Think of sunlight, Naitachal. Think of life and joy. They are the only realities here.”
Kevin saw the White Elf wince with the force of Naitachal’s desperate grasp—But Eliathanis refused to let go, as though willing peace into the Dark Elf through that link.
And little by little the tension left Naitachal’s body. He shuddered one last time, then released the White Elf’s hand, looking at Eliathanis in confusion.
“Thank you,” the Dark Elf said after a moment. “I hardly expected you to wish to help me, but—thank
