Harruq’s eyes danced back and forth from Tessanna to Qurrah, trying to make sense of the conflicting emotions of his heart.
“I don’t want you to,” he said at last. “Do you have to? Really have to?”
Qurrah pulled the rucksack over his shoulder. “I must. I will return, as often as I can.”
The half-orc moved aside. Qurrah took up his things, nodded to Tessanna, and then moved for the door.
“Where will you live?” Harruq asked.
“Not far. Please, honor this wish, brother. Do not look for us. I will be fine, I assure you. If I am ever gone longer than two months, you may have the elf scry for our location.”
Nodding, the burly half-orc motioned for the door. Qurrah patted him on the shoulder. He opened his mouth to speak, but found no words, only a soft trickle of blood down the back of his throat. He turned and hurried down the stairs, subtly pressing the sides of his hood against his face on the way. Tessanna paused before poor confused Harruq, pitying his turmoil. She was still a stranger to him, and in a few fleeting days, she had come and stolen away his only brother.
“Harruq,” she said, her eyes locked on his toes. “I just…I want to thank you.” She kissed his cheek, blushed, and then fled down the stairs. The half-orc stood there long after they left, hating and loving his brother and his girl with the deep black eyes.
T arlak waited for them at the bottom, his arms crossed and his foot steadily tapping the floor.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“We are leaving the Eschaton,” Qurrah said. “We have a new home, and wish to move on.”
The wizard nodded, his expression dire. “Good. Then I have just one thing to say to you.” He strode over to Qurrah, reached into his pocket, and then pulled out a small, silver scorpion. It was exquisitely carved and dangled from a chain of gold. He handed it to Qurrah, who held it close to his face and opened his mouth in wonder.
“You will always be an Eschaton, and so I give you a parting gift. It is a token, representing your ties to us. Brug spent many hours working on that one, and I’m not sure what all it does. Tell it to awake.”
Qurrah glanced at the wizard, his confusion apparent. “Awake?”
“Not ask, order it.”
The half-orc shrugged. He held the medallion higher, impressed with the life-like detail and size. The pinchers were sharp, and the tail curled and ready to strike. “Awake,” he told it, his voice firm. At once, color flooded the silver. It crawled about to face its master, snapping its claws repeatedly.
“Many wizards have a familiar,” Tarlak said, smiling at the scorpion. “Brug decided you should have one as well. You won’t have many of the same connections that most mages do, but I do know you won’t end up in a coma for a week if this little guy gets squashed.”
Qurrah brought his hand back and clicked with his tongue. The scorpion crawled onto his shoulder and nestled down into the black cloth.
“It is a fine gift,” the half-orc said. “Far better than I deserve.”
“You saved my sister,” Tarlak said. “It is far less than what you deserve, but take it as an effort to thank you, just the same.”
Qurrah shifted the rucksack to his other shoulder. “We will return occasionally. Make sure my brother is well each time I do.”
“Other than a few bruises and broken bones from Haern, he should be just fine.”
Tarlak bowed, and Qurrah returned it. Tessanna joined his side, stroking the scorpion.
“Pretty,” she said. “And creepy. I love it.”
Her laughter still echoed when they shut the door and left the tower.
H arruq was miserable the rest of the day, not brightening up even when presented with another bountiful feast for dinner. He picked at the food, and then pushed the plate away. He left without a word.
“Someone needs to cheer that guy up,” Tarlak said, shoving pieces of chicken into his mouth.
“He will be alright,” Aurelia said. “Give him time.”
“I’ll set him straight tomorrow if he isn’t,” Haern said, smiling. His hood was nowhere in sight, and his smile a bright sun to the somber table.
T he stars shine well this night,” Aurelia said, approaching the lone half-orc. They were a mile south of the tower. The Eschaton tower and its surrounding forest were far away. Only hills and stars blessed their eyes. “They do so to light your way, and the way of your brother.”
“Don’t feel like talking, Aurry,” Harruq said. His back was to her, hunched over and his head low. His eyes looked to the ground as much as they looked to the sky.
“I know,” she said, sitting beside him in the grass. “Do you know why he left? It’s because he must, Harruq. You two are brothers, closer than most humans and elves ever become to their kin, but you are not the same. You cannot walk the same path forever.”
Harruq remained silent, absently picking at the grass.
“It’s normal to miss him,” she continued. “Please don’t dwell upon it, though. You have friends here, and your brother is not alone.”
“He has her,” he said.
“And you have me,” Aurelia said. Her fingers touched his chin, turning his face to hers. “Did you mean what you said earlier?”
Harruq met her gaze, a bit of anger flaring into his eyes, but then he pulled away and looked to his feet. “Yeah. I did.”
The elf slid closer and wrapped her arms around him. Her head rested on his shoulder. She felt his muscles stiffen, and she sensed the instinctive discomfort it caused him.
“Don’t look at your feet, dummy. The stars are far prettier.”
He chuckled, mumbling some sort of protest. He looked to the stars. Long moments passed, quiet and warm, as they gazed at the beacons of white locked into the black painting above. Finally, Aurelia stood, brushing off grass from her dress. She pulled a silver ring off her right hand and held it out to him.
“Take this.”
“What’s it for?” he asked, accepting it. The silver twinkled in the starlight. Such a beautiful token seemed out of place on his rough, dirty hands.
“One day you’ll understand,” she said. She knelt and kissed his forehead. “All you give me I will return,” she whispered. “Anything, and everything.”
With those words, she left him to his thoughts. He twirled the silver ring, mesmerized by the reflection. When he returned to the tower, he placed the ring underneath his pillow and did his best not to look at the vacant bed beside him.
13
A strange sickness claimed the trees as they neared the clearing, miles from any established path. Grass lay curled and limp, its color a dull brown. The sunlight brought no cheer, for it shone through dead branches. In the center, dilapidated and weatherworn, was the former home of Tessanna Delone. It was a small cottage, overrun with brown vines, with a single door, flat roof, and clogged chimney.
“Pretty, isn’t it,” Tessanna said. Her voice was sullen and inward. “Daddy said the land died at my birth.” She approached the front door, Qurrah at her side. The grass crumpled weakly under their feet. When she yanked open the door, the dull noises of the forest silenced altogether.
Qurrah was familiar with death. He could sense its approach, harness its power, and touch the cold trail that lingered long after its passing. Corpses meant nothing to him. He should have handled seeing what he saw. He didn’t. His breakfast rushed up his throat, and he lurched to one side, doubling over and vomiting.
“Hi, daddy,” Tessanna said. “Did you miss me?”
Tied to a chair hunched the remains of Tessanna’s father. His shriveled hands were bound behind him. The ropes had loosened over time as the flesh underneath shriveled and decayed. The house had been his tomb, and within, he had almost mummified. Stitches of red cloth hung stiff from the leathery nubs of flesh that had been his lips. Covering what remained of his clothes were great blotches of dried blood, mixed with shards of glass.
