The Restless Shore (10 page)

“Feeling better?” Uthalion asked.

“Yes,” the half-elf replied casually, turning away from the feasting kaia. “Much better… Just needed some exercise I suppose.”

Uthalion nodded and stood, pacing to the spot where Brindani might have been eaten had he come alone. Fresh dirt had been dug up, leaving dimpled little holes in the ground, but no trace as to what had captured the half-elfs attention. Turning back east Uthalion noticed the pack over Brindani’s shoulder. He held it closein a tight grip, its side stained with dirty handprints.

They left the blazing circle of light in silence, careful to avoid the low stone walls where the kaia munched and fought over the flesh of their siblings in the dark. Uthalion kept Brindani in the lead, unwilling to turn his back on the secretive half-elf until he had discovered some answers. His thoughts were cut off by a series of low and distant howls drifting down from the high ground where only the tops of the Akanapeaks were visible to his human eyes.

Even from so far away, the dreamers’ voices carried a small amount of power, causing his pulse to quicken and his stomach to squirm uncomfortably.

“Let’s get back to the others,” he said. “There should be

enough time for some rest before dawn. I’d like to be on our feet long before those things find us again.”

They jogged along the edge of the southern darkness. The cliff traced a fine line between solid ground and what looked like the end of the world, Uthalion eyed Brindani’s pack. A soldier’s instinct set off alarms in his gut, sensing yet another threat looming on an already dangerous journey.

“Little troubles,” he muttered under his breath. “They start out small, but they’re never pretty.”

**********

The dreamers bounded down the hills, whining and howling to one another. Their sparse fur rustled in the breeze, and their heartbeats were synchronous beats of muffled thunder as they hunted in the tall grass. Sefir followed closely behind, his dark robes barely concealing his bandaged feet as he enjoyed the cool and crisp feel of the spring grass beneath his toes. He whispered to the dreamers as they searched, singing softly to them through teeth that ached with quickening change. He could already feel the pinpricks of new growth pushing through his gums where his old teeth had been displaced and discarded.

He felt his flesh ripple in the moonlight, responding to its glow like a tide, waves of change crashing through his limbs. His robes hid the blessed scars of the Lady’s touch, the gift she gave to all of those chosen to walk among the Choir.

“She moves quickly, Favored One,” he said as his companion joined him. “I fear the dawn may yet find her before we do.”

An exasperated sigh rattled from beneath the deep hood and dirty white robes of the figure at his side. Even in frustration, the Favored One’s voice held a power that shuddered through the very ground, a beguiling melody that could barely contain its undertones of destruction.

He was Sefir’s elder, tall and strong, moving gracefully as a fish in water. Scars crisscrossed his red-stained hands; yellowed robes bore the crimson reminders of his seniority among the Choir.

“She has help now. Guides,” the Favored One said as they walked in the wake of the dreaming pack. “These men, shadows of our old selves, use her toward their own ends. The girl must be rescued from their hubris.”

“Yet they lead her home, to where the Lady calls her,” Sefir replied. “Is this not proper?”
“No!”

The voice lanced through Sefir’s body like a bolt of lightning, forcing him to his knees as the pain of pure anger coursed through his flesh. He gasped, catching his breath, and was suddenly ashamed of his foolishness, his presumption of the Lady’s desire. A strong hand, cold and crusted with old blood, fell gently upon his shoulder.

“Do not make the mistake of confusing coincidence with destiny,” the powerful voice said, flooding his thoughts with calm and wisdom. Sefir rose slowly, the pain subsiding and settling in those places where his body seemed ready to burst and bloom with bestowed power. He bowed his head to the Favored One, who continued, “You are young yet among our number, chosen for the sword you wear at your side.”

Sefir’s hand rested on the old blade, nicked and stained from battles he could no longer remember, the memories of some other life already washed away by the power of the Lady’s song.

“You are to be the Lady’s warrior, a blade in her hand… A song of war.” The words filled Sefir with pride as he lifted his head to the half-hidden face of his mentor. “I bid you go and sing. Bring steel and song to those who would judge us.”

Sefir turned, his back arching as he stretched, bones

popping slightly, reconfiguring to support the squirming new muscles beneath his skin. He bent forward, sniffing at the air, tasting it on his tongue, and training his ears to the howls of the dreamers. A brief pain distracted him, bringing with it a dim sense of doubt, some forgotten thought rising to the surface of his mind like a corpse thrown in a river.

“She… The genasi,” he stammered, trying to make sense of the sudden emotion, though it was small in comparison to his desire to return home, to Tohrepur. “She will become the Prophet?”

“No,” the Favored One said, turning south. “She is the Prophet. Her sister will awaken her.”

“And the men?” Sefir asked, tapping the cool metal of the blade at his side.

“Seek them upon the edge of the lowlands, what they call the Wash,” came the reply, a current of anger thundering through his mentor’s voice. “Should they escape… Well, I shall have words with Uthalion myself.”

The name meant nothing to Sefir. Most names, save for the one he’d been given at Tohrepur, seemed unimportant devices, divisive markers of loneliness. His urge to ask yet more questions surprised him, but the feeling did not last long.

The song came whispering across the Akana. Trembling at the sound, at the wordless promises of the power growing within him, his vision blurred, and he winced in pain at the moonlight. The brightness burned his eyes, the light screaming at his senses.

Averting his gaze, he turned to the Favored One, to the tight bandages wrapped over his mentor’s face, obscuring the deep gouges and bloody furrows where sight had once been seated. Sefir placed his hands over his own eyes, feeling the toughness of his skin, lightly scraping a fingernail across his brow.

“There is a place at a rise among the lowlands,” the Favored One said. “A small village… called Caidris. Find me there.”

Leaving Sefir alone, he strode into the dark, barefoot and blind, but seeing far greater than most beasts of the Akana. Sefir watched after him for long moments, until the howls of the dreamers stirred his blood and drew him into their hunt.

“Yes,” he replied to his mentor’s back, “Lord Khault.”

He loped into the descending land, following the pack through the crystals and along the steep cliffs. His voice swam through the restless waves of the melody of the Mere-That-Was, searching for the woman who would bear the Lady’s song and carry it far beyond the lonely ruins he called home.

8 Mirtul, the Year of the Ageless One

(1479 DR)

The Akana, North of the Wash, Akanul

Something fell to the ground, but Uthalion did not hear it, nor did he care to glance. The woman’s voice, soft and warm, like the glow of a star and sounding just as distant, trapped him in its ethereal notes of whistling wind and deep, echoing tides. The voice seemed to hang in the air like the pitch that followed the ringing of a bell, humming in each long breath he took, buzzing in his ears. It reminded him of home, of the smell of rose petals scattered on a new bed, of a wedding night so long ago it pained him to think about it.

As the song faded, he gasped, feeling a moment of sudden panic. His hands clenched into fists, as though he could grasp the fragile tune, keep it and hold it to his chest. But it left him alone in the

silence of the Akana. The lack was painful and he blinked several times, realizing where he was in alarm.

Dawn had not yet blemished the eastern sky. The soft, steady breathing of Ghaelya and Brindani soothed him. Sleep not being an issue for him, he’d been on watch when the song came and stole his senses. Faintly he could hear the distant howls of the dreamers, still searching, still hunting, and still far enough away that morning would arrive before they did. He sighed and swore under his breath, turning to prepare his pack when a patch of darkness shifted and caught his eye.

Vaasurri crouched nearby, staring at him through eyes as black as the night sky. The killoren’s cloak was pulled tight over his shoulders; his once-brown hair, now dark as coal, fluttered in the predawn air. His hands rested on the drawn bone-sword as he tilted his head suspiciously.

“What were you thinking about?” the fey asked, a note of accusation in his voice.

“Nothing,” Uthalion answered, the lie coming quickly to his lips.

He was accustomed to the killoren’s shifts in mood, and the corresponding shift in his features. Vaasurri’s appearance reflected different aspects of nature like a mirror and responded to his preternatural instincts. Uthalion had seen many faces of his old friend, but the one that greeted the dawn with black eyes, like nature’s wrath, caused his soul to shudder—the fey sensed great danger in the day to come.

The dark gaze looked over the sleeping forms of Brindani and Ghaelya, narrowing slightly before returning to the human. Uthalion defied the look, possessive of the secret song, while at the same time frightened by his need to keep it hidden, lest someone try to wrench it away from him. Guilt wrenched at his insides as Vaasurri nodded and prowled away into the night, likely to scout out the southwest trails to the Wash.

At his feet Uthalion found his old notebook, the pages splayed open where he had dropped the journal, a thin stick of charcoal lying beside it. He collected these in a daze, the powerful urge to flee coming over him suddenly, casting his thoughts to safer, quieter places. No power had ever haunted him as this song did, not even the sorcerous voices of the aboleth at Tohrepur or the thundering rage of the krakens swimming through the storm clouds over Caidris.

His stare fell upon the sleeping form of Ghaelya, the genasi stirring in her sleep.

Is it her? he thought. Did she bring this?

He pondered the idea for long moments, considering the possibility and what he might do if it somehow proved true. Brindani had been acting strangely as well, and had accompanied the genasi far longer than Uthalion and Vaasurri. He wondered what effects the song might have upon him, given enough time—but his thoughts soon turned to envy, coveting the song’s beauty for himself…

“No,” he whispered, taking hold of his emotions and shaking his head, fighting against the confusion of thoughts at war with one another.

Breathing deeply, he resolved to keep a cautious account of himself and a careful eye on the genasi and the half-elf. He made his pack ready for travel and waited patiently for the return of Vaasurri. It was a long time before he realized he hadn’t yet honestly thought about turning back to the Spur. Though the late evening breeze was not overly cool, he shivered anyway.

********

Ghaelya had lain down, staring up at the stars, dreading sleep and the dream almost as much she looked forward to it. Her eyes had grown heavy several times, but to no

effect. The stars still remained before her, wheeling slowly in their endless circles.

Uthalion stood watch nearby, his blank eyes turning slowly from north to south in the moonlight. Turning over, she stared into the tall grass on her right, a newly made campfire warming her back. She wondered for a moment why Uthalion had changed his mind about keeping a cold camp. But the fire’s warmth soothed her aching muscles and made the thought of eventual slumber a bit more attainable.

The grass swayed in the evening breeze, disturbing tiny beetles that had gathered upon it. They crawled and massed together in frenzied clumps, the imperative of spring summoning them one to another. The buzz of floundering wings filled her ears, seeping in and gathering behind her tired eyes. Scrambling oh the ground, some of the insects rolled onto their backs, frantic struggles weakening as the singular missions of their brief lives were performed. Competition expended the last of what energy reserves they had, and they slowly died, small and unnoticed in the deep grass until morning brought birds to find them and carry them home.

Looking past the beetles, deeper in the fire-born shadows of the grass, Ghaelya watched a glimmer appear and grow closer. Two pinpoints of dancing flame spied upon her from their hiding place as the familiar whisper of a song began to form in the buzz of dying beetles. Alarmed, she tried to sit up, but found herself paralyzed, rooted to the ground. She tried to speak, but her voice was nothing but a dry hiss as the grass shifted and parted for the hidden watcher.

Long slender fingers pushed gently past the beetles, and they scurried away from the contact, climbing higher or flying away to settle elsewhere. The hands were pale and well formed. They parted the grass as the flickering

pinpoints neared, half revealing a face in the firelight. The scent of her sister—always a soft fragrance of lavender— found her, and she tried to cry out, to reach for Tessaeril. But she could only watch.

The flames in Tessaeril’s eyes grew, consuming the familiar, crimson-tinted hazel that had differentiated her from her twin. The fire reflected in those eyes looked upon Ghaelya as well, a burning guilt from which she could not escape.

The pale hands pushed more grass and beetles aside, revealing the image of a small farmhouse, an illusion formed of twigs and dead grass, dirt and errant bugs. She could see inside the tiny windows, past the outstretched wing of a dying beetle, and saw movement, shadows on the walls in tiny candlelight. A half-ruined windmill stood nearby, torn fabric glistening as a patchwork of beetle wings stretched on sharp little legs.

The hands swiftly withdrew, and the farmhouse fell apart, dissolving back into the components that had constructed it. The whisper of the song faded, but the face of her sister pushed forward. The burning eyes turned a deep, velvety red. Little petals pushed from between the lids, slowly at first, but then bloomed from her sockets into blood red flowers. They opened wide as if to embrace the night sky, their petals pulsing like muscle tissue. Ghaelya stared into their depths, horror drawing her in to the squirming centers where miniature figures writhed in thick red nectar—a bloom and its blood.