The command turned them away whining, a simpering mewling tone that only served to feed the impotent rage burning in his chest. Collecting himself, he stood, wavering on his feet and stretching his changing anatomy. New growths writhed on his back, constrained by his robes, and he shuddered at the acute sensation of touch they delivered. Rubbing his jaw and baring the strong needle-teeth that had pushed through, he caught a faint sound of buzzing from the south.
He smiled grimly, imagining the black wings that made the sound, far larger than the annoying moths immolating themselves in the burning farmhouse. Laying his palms upward in supplication, he spoke to the voice that filled his every waking thought, the music that lived in every part of him.
“To Caidris I shall travel then, my Lady,” he said and spread his hands to the assembled pack of dreamers, “We shall greet them beyond the lowlands and embrace those that survive through the valley of black wings. It is her will.”
Relief flooded through him, certain that his failure had been part of the Lady’s grand design all along and pleased that he could be of service. Khault had known, had told him as much, and Sefir felt blind for not seeing the truth. Attempting to open his eyes again, he winced, his left eye still fresh with a pain that was maddening. He pressed his palm over the closed lid feeling the tight thrum of the pulse behind the darkness in his sight, the veins squirming at his touch as if reaching for release.
Sighing in understanding, even smiling, he reached up and placed a dirty fingernail against the soft flesh beneath his eye.
It gave way to his strength easily, in a ritual he had imagined ever since the first soft touch of his Lady’s spirit had graced him. The pain was a price he willingly paid, eager to step closer into the fold of the Choir. Rolled clumps of tissue gathered beneath his nails as he led the dreamers southwest, tearing strips of filthy cloth from his robes and blessing each one with a light kiss before pressing them over each fresh wound.
Despite the falling moon and the long distant flames, the night became brighter than any day he’d ever known.
CHAPTER TEN
9 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR) The Akana, the Wash, Akanul
As the night crawled inexorably toward the faint light of sunrise, the flames above their hidden cave died to a smoldering pile of popping wood and ash. Vaasurri awoke and crawled out into the predawn air. Uthalion said nothing as the fey left to find his place among the stilled tides of rock outside. He was well used to the killoren’s morning ritual, though he could never have grasped the depths of the fey’s attachment to the wild places of the world.
Climbing high upon a spire of rock, Vaasurri searched the shadows of the rocky ravine, hunting for signs of movement. The pale bodies of the bone moths blanketed the northern hillside; their scattered eggs collected in snowlike drifts atop rocks and among the branches of trees. Already he could see the first of the scavengers crawling from the cracks in the rock to feast upon the annual bounty. They would gorge themselves, and still thousands of larvae would survive into the summer months.
Closing his black eyes, Vaasurri placed his hands upon the rock, listening to the distant sounds of the Akanamere stirring, and searching for his place in the coming day. All thought retreated as the wild caressed his spirit, shaped his instincts, and whispered secrets to his fey soul. His heartbeat slowed to the crawl of a mountain through time, as stilled as the tide that had once filled the Akana.
His eyes flew open, and his heartbeat sprang to a quick beat again. He searched the rock walls high above for dusky lairs, where the threat he sensed might hide from the bright day. A threat despised the season, that feasted on death and hated the hope of spring, a betrayal to all it had once held dear.
His senses sharp, Vaasurri looked upon the world with the same coal black eyes as the previous day. His spirit remained prepared to act as the cold left hand of nature’s wrath. As thunder rumbled ominously in the south, the killoren could almost hear the hidden fiends above, clawing anxiously at the rock and whispering dark prayers for a day that would see no sun.
Morning had never been his element..
Brindani rubbed at his eyes encrusted with grime, opening them gingerly. Every joint in his hand felt swollen and creaked as he flexed his fingers, stretching out the exhaustion embedded in his bones. A single stab of pain doubled him over, and he clutched the tender layer of muscle over his stomach. It throbbed, though not for long, and he breathed easy as the pain faded to match the ache in the rest of his weary body.
He crawled out of the small cave, careful not to wake Uthalion or Ghaelya. Vaasurri was nowhere to be seen. He took shallow breaths and crouched out of sight of the others, troubled by the killoren’s absence and dreading the blazing light of day to come. He looked up to the land that some called the Silent Tide, to the great walls of rock curving like waves to crash down upon the ravines and valleys of the Wash. A constant breeze traveled the labyrinth of stone, creating a sound not unlike the ocean. The sensation of being trapped in a twisting seashell would have been unavoidable if not for the trees and the sky overhead.
The smell of smoke and char was still heavy on the air, and his eyes inexorably drifted up to the edge of the ravine, seeing nothing of the abandoned farmhouse where he should have diedan honorable death stolen away by flame… and Uthalion.
“Feeling better?”
He jumped at the sound of Vaasurri’s voice, and bright stars flashed before his eyes for several heartbeats as he calmed, scowling unhappily.
“Not a bit,” he answered hoarsely. “And I don’t expect today’s march to help much.”
“Better then,” Vaasurri replied and crawled down from his hiding place atop the cave. He crouched several strides away and fixed the half-elf with a dark stare. “You should — be dead.”
“Thank Uthalion for that,” Brindani said. “He pulled me from the house”
“No,” Vaasurri interrupted. “You should have died days ago, longer perhaps.”
Brindani shook his head, grinning in disbelief as he pushed back against the rock wall. He closed his eyes and cursed himself for not dying, a more preferable fate to the inevitable lecture he heard in Vaasurri’s voice.
“Don’t sound so disappointed,” he replied. “There’s chance yet.”
“Undoubtedly,” the fey said. “But you got rid of the silkroot, didn’t you? Perhaps you’ll discover a cleaner death than it would have provided.”
“How did you…?” Brindani asked in shock.
“Its smell is faded,” Vaasurri responded and pulled a pouch from beneath his cloak, tossing it at Brindani’s lap. “Leaves from the same plant and odorless. Chew on them as you would the rootthey’ll help with the pain.”
Brindani stared at the pouch for long moments before picking it up in his shaking hands, ashamed for the horrors he’d unwittingly aided in following the group. Though as much as he wished to be free of his addiction, it was a weak will that he could wield against it, and he knew it would break. Just the thought of it churned his stomach anew, and the slight sensation of pins and needles in his gut caused him to gasp quietly for air.
“You won’t tell the others?” he asked.
“Not her, if that is your wish,” Vaasurri answered solemnly. “But Uthalion already knows.”
“How?”
“He doesn’t sleep,” the killoren said, turning back to his perch upon the rock. “He’s been listening to us all along.”
Thunder rumbled ever closer from the south, punctuating the growing dread in Brindani’s heart as Vaasurri drew his strangely carved bone-blade and studied the approaching clouds. Brindani stared at the weapon, blinking in disbelief and certain he’d just seen the patterns on the sword shift and squirm into new designs. Before he could look closer, the killoren nimbly leaped down to the spiraling cave mouth.
In the spaces between thunder and the growing wind, Brindani briefly caught the sound of fluttering wings echoing through the valley even as his hand absently traced the rounded edge of a small lump at the bottom of his pack. Wrapped tightly and tucked away, it called to him like an old friendout of sight, but not out of mind.
