slumber.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
11 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR) South of Caidris, Akanul
Weak morning light filtered through a gray sky, heralding the edge of the Lash.
Rocky storm-motes floated lazily back to the south, still trailing long ribbons of steam like misty roads across the sky. Bright flowers edged their way through the tall grass, their wide petals straining to glean what sunlight they might find peeking through the clouds. Brindani found himself eerily captivated by the brilliant blues and deep reds, as the wind blowing through the grass rasped dryly, murmuring in his ears like a nest of snakes.
He eyed the flat expanse of bleak sky ahead with a contented stare as he strode toward the chill plains of the Lash with a strength and fluid
Ofrfl(to ho TlftIJT*t folf in HaiIa ovan vaara T’Ka nam of silkroot withdrawal remained in his gut, though it was quite overshadowed by a growing army of other sensations. Thin strips of skin had begun to peel away from the raw patch on his neck, his hands were dry and colder than normal, and his teeth had begun to ache with a bittersweet throb that seemed to heighten his other senses all the more.
Uthalion and Ghaelya, though they had spoken little since that morning, were closer and more comfortable in each other’s company than Brindani would have liked. He studied the narrow distance between them, their confident step, and the way they scanned the path ahead for danger as if in sync with one another. He forced himself to look away, attempting to banish the unbidden jealousy that clenched his fists and pounded in his heart.
As sure as I die… Our Lady’s will and song… shall walk at your side…
Sefir’s words to Ghaelya echoed in his mind unceasingly, almost like a prophecy he was bound to fulfill. He placed a hand on his forehead and squeezed tightly, as though he might extract whatever influence the dead singer had infected him with. From the corner of his eye he caught Vaasurri watching him carefully. Cursing, Brindani lowered his hand and folded his arms lest the killoren notice the arcing blue veins that had begun to worm their way through his wrists.
Much as he sought to hide and to resist the thing he felt himself becoming, he could not pull his gaze from Ghaelya for long. He was constantly making sure she stayed the path and did not waver. He told himself that all would be fine, that he could make it to Tohrepur, see his obligations through before losing any more of himself to Sefir’s flowery curse. He reasoned that the source of the song, the singer full of wordless promise, might have pity on him, cure his imbalanced mind, and set him free of the ruins once and for allbut only should he bring the genasi, the twin.
He did not know why, and he loathed the irrational logic that consoled his nobler instincts, realizing the lies even as he constructed them, but clinging fiercely to them all the same. Ghaelya would be fine, and all would be well and forgiven.
As they crossed over into the long, sloping plains of the Lash, Brindani felt the slightest measure of relief, as if redemption had brushed his cheek to let him know he had done well. The dry grass crunched beneath their boots, and a spiraling mass of clouds rolled high overhead. The wind picked up, the cold biting deep through his cloak and leather armor. He sensed eyes watching him, though none could be seen save those of the tenacious killoren.
In the wind, beyond the creaking of sparse, bare trees or the grating scrape of grass bending upon grass, he could hear a whisper of the song. Not in his mind, no longer a ghostly melody barely louder than a thought, but true sound, hidden in the strengthening gale. Repulsed by his own sickening joy at the sound, his stride slowed slightly, and he felt nauseous, torn between what he wished and the thing clawing at his flesh and identity.
Uthalion squinted through the palette of grays that dominated the Lash. Even the grass was a sickly green bordering on white. The highland had dipped low by mid-morning, descending on a long slope to the lowland Wash and the wide basin of the Lash. Long, flowing fields of jade gave way to a short, stubbly carpet of muted green that crunched beneath his boots, though the sound was felt rather than heard. The winds of the Lash howled, ripping
ntvmaa the lnnriarane in an avar-strnnor crnle nf imnonn’inar rainstorms that never came. Cloaks were pulled tight, and hoods set low against the wind and the fine particles of dust that accompanied it.
Stark white trees were scattered across the landscape like statues, their bare limbs creaking in the wind. Each bore the same oaklike shape, but their sizes varied. Short, thin saplings shared the ground with massive- limbed behemoths that towered over the skeleton forests. The bone-trees shivered in the wind, their branches clicking and scraping as Uthalion led the way, ever faster, through the land of storms.
Uthalion kept his boots moving, his hand firmly on the hilt of his sword, the cold breath in his aching lungs, and maintained a steady southern course. But he could not escape the chilling horror of one night of sleep.
There had been no dream, no nightmare to which he’d become accustomed. He had been almost ready to welcome the unforgiving dark of the recurring dream, to search the storm for Khault the farmer, ready to confront the memory after having confronted the man, or what had been left of the man. The nightmare would have changed, he felt it in his bones, had he chosen to act differently, to accept that old night for what it was and somehow change the nature of his secret fear that it all could happen again. But the dream that had come to him had not been of Caidris.
In the dark where once had sat the town of Caidris he’d found only a single, familiar cottage. Inside, the cottage his old homehad been abandoned. The table was set for dinner, a lantern was lit in the common room, and the small bed of his daughter, Cienna, was empty. He’d called for them over and over, as strange red flowers had begun to grow out of the walls. The only answer he’d received, through an open front door which faced a hazy southern horizon, was singing.
“Slow down,” Ghaelya said at his side, struggling to keep up with his long stride and freeing him, briefly, of the terrifying dream.
“No time. Keep moving,” he replied, unable to shake the thought of his wife and child being dragged across the Lash, of Khault’s vengeful, twisted hands on his family. “Almost there,” he added under his breath.
“Can’t you feel it?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder. “Something is watching us.”
Distractedly, Uthalion studied the flat landscape closer, noting nothing out of the ordinary besides blooming clumps of bright blue flowersthey were hardy blooms for such a cruel environment, but spring on the Akana was typically a study in the unusual. He saw no movement save for the waving trees, the continuous swirl of the racing clouds, and the slow inexorable crawl of storm-motes drifting like smoking mountains just beneath the cloud cover.
“I see nothing. Woman’s intuition perhaps?” he muttered just loud enough for her to hear. He earned a stern glare from the genasi.
Almost ready to dismiss her concern, he did slow by half a step, noticing a small group of darting birds with flashy, metallic feathers. They settled On the ground, hopping and searching the short grass for food, though he noted he had seen none of the birds near the trees. The more he watched them, the more it seemed they avoided the bone-trees altogether. Uncertain as to whether that was call for an alarm, he sensed a sudden hush.
The familiar quiet crawled up his spine, awakening his battle-hardened instincts such that they fairly screamed at him to watch for some kind of ambush. He flinched at the loud screech of a nearby bird, drawing a handspan of blade from his sheath as the flock took to the air, their sparkling wings carrying them farther away from the intruders to their land. to appear that he had been so focused on the nearness of Tohrepur, he hadn’t considered the consequences of such a proximity.
“What is it?” Ghaelya whispered. “What do you see?”
His gaze darted from the ground to the sky to the ominous trees, searching for the source of his paranoia.
“So close to reaching Tohrepur,” he answered thoughtfully. “We haven’t considered that Tohrepur might reach out for us.”
Vaasurri kept an eye on Brindani even as the killoren edged closer to Uthalion. The half-elf s strange fidgeting
