The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (51 page)

He bowed low, then spun away with a flourish, only to turn back with a neglected thought. “Pardon my haste. This dance tends to be a fancy occasion. If it should please you ladies, I will have a word with a tailor friend of mine, to see what he can do about fitting each of you with gowns for this evening.”

Holly glanced at the other two women at the table, her own mischievous smile brightening her face. “Thank you, sir. That would be lovely.”

Traver’s grin nearly swallowed his ears, and he bowed again. “Name is Hopper. On the corner of Pick and Cammerlin. Just tell him I sent you.”

“Go, knave,” Warrlun growled. “See to it you don’t forget the real business at hand.”

Traver winked, glanced briefly back at the drinking brood he had been observing earlier, then sauntered toward the exit.

Torin watched him go, seething with mistrust. “What in the Abyss was that?”

Warrlun regarded him in annoyance. “Is there a problem?”

“You tell him we’re hunting elves, he agrees, and we’re off just like that? How do you know we can trust him?”

“Watch your tone, boy. As I said before, this isn’t the Southland. Up here, we have ways of weeding out undesirables.”

“So your lord explained to me,” Torin sneered, refusing to back down. “Somehow, that doesn’t put me at ease.”

“I’m not interested in your sense of ease. If it helps, I’ve known Traver a long time. Bit of a rascal, but we’ll not find a better guide. I’d sooner leave you behind than him.”

Torin had by no measure finished his objection, but stopped short when he caught sight of Dyanne shaking her head. There was no need for this argument, she seemed to be saying. And she was right. It suddenly occurred to him why she might have agreed to attend this ridiculous festival. Just as she had spent time before among Commander Jaik and the other rogues with whom they had eventually done battle at Neak-Thur, so too would she take advantage of this opportunity to learn what she could of this Traver by more subtle means. At least, he hoped that was why she had agreed.

Even so, he might have said something more, but Jaecy chose that moment to reappear with six steaming platters.

“Lose one, did ya?”

Warrlun grunted, taking two helpings for himself and handing the woman a few coins, which she tucked into the pocket of her apron. This time, Torin was too agitated to be bothered by the undue attentions she lavished upon him.

“Just let me know if ya need anything else,” she added. “Anything at all.”

Warrlun dismissed her with another grunt, digging already into his first plate of food. Torin stowed his complaints and did likewise.

As he ate, however, he continued to reflect upon this newest addition to their troop. In all honesty, he had no reason to think any less of Traver than he did Warrlun. But at least Warrlun—whatever his secrets—made no pretense at being anything other than the gruff soldier that he was. Traver, on the other hand, was hiding something behind his genteel manners. And though uncertain of what that might be, Torin was troubled to think he might be the only one to sense it.

Despite his double portion, Warrlun was the first to finish both food and drink. Upon draining his mug, he shoved aside the empty platters and lurched to his feet.

“I’ll secure us a set of rooms for the night.” Glaring at Torin, he added, “Fetch our gear before it drowns out there.”

Once again, he turned away before Torin could protest, leaving the disgruntled king of Alson to gnaw silently on a bitter retort.

H
E COULD NOT ESCAPE THE SCREAMS.

Even now, hours later, surrounded by the bustle of the Parthan Legion’s Second Division, they were with him. Those of Corathel’s men whom he had arrived too late to save. Those of the A’awari clansmen who had cheered the bloodshed. But most of all, those of Jaquith Wyevesces, the Powaii native who had surrendered his life bit by bit so that Allion wouldn’t be made to forfeit his.

He had told himself that what he saw had not been real. None had spoken of it the night before, as they made their way northward from the Mookla’ayan gathering. When they were far enough removed that a pursuit seemed unlikely, Corathel had posted a guard and ordered the rest of them to sleep while they could. But whenever Allion closed his eyes, the echo of screams had intensified, and he saw in his mind Wyevesces, staked to that triangular mesh, thrashing and wailing against a torment the hunter—even after serving witness—could scarcely imagine.

He’d been almost thankful when it was realized that few others were sleeping either, and thus the whole company roused to continue its trek. Still, its members kept silent, as if by avoiding the topic they might pretend the ordeal had never taken place.

Eventually, however, Allion had come to understand the unfairness of doing so—to himself and to Weave. To simply bury the memory would be to dishonor the elf’s sacrifice. And even if he were successful, hiding his pain deep within could only mean that it would be there to haunt him forever.

Instead, he had begun efforts to deal with it properly. While still en route through the jungle, he had sidled up to Kae, Mookla’ayan scholar and interpreter—she who stood the best chance of helping him to make sense of it all. He’d soon found that she was as scarred by the events as he. They had spoken in hushed and solemn tones for more than an hour, tentatively at first, before trusting one another with their deeper thoughts and feelings. Others, like Jasyn, had soon joined them. Even the embittered Second General was forced to admit that he no longer knew what to think of these Mookla’ayans, so wild and barbaric on the one hand, yet capable of such noble sacrifice on the other.

Among Allion’s many questions to Kae was that regarding Weave’s plea—specifically the part about making the native’s afterlife journey a short one.
Kae, who by then had seemed more angered than saddened by the entire affair, had been kind enough to explain what the Powaii had meant. According to elven beliefs, when one died, he undertook a quest in death to undo the evil he had committed in life. Only after rectifying all of his misdeeds would the deceased find peace. Thus, the better he lived, the quicker and easier his afterlife’s trial would be.

Superstitious nonsense, Kae had added with a huff, sniffing back tears. But Allion was not so certain. He was beginning to understand, he thought, Kylac’s keen interest in this race—how the youth could claim that the better one got to know them, the less savage they seemed.

Since speaking of it helped, Kae went on to highlight some of the variations held with regard to this elven belief. To the ancient Finlorians, for instance, burial and preservation of the body had been very important, so that the individual would have strength for his posthumous journey. To others, like the Mookla’ayans, the strength granted the individual was that maintained by the living who consumed his flesh. Thus, as horridly sadistic as Wyevesces’s fate had seemed, it was also an honor, for in devouring his flesh, his enemies had made certain that he would not lack for this much-needed strength.

Fire, on the other hand, while often used to cleanse impurities, was considered an insult to the dead, for it laid waste to the body and therefore hindered the departed’s ability to complete his quest for redemption in the afterlife. While Weave’s death seemed to expose certain inconsistencies, there could be no mistaking what the A’awari felt toward the Parthan soldiers they had condemned.

On past midday they had marched, discussing these and other topics, little of which had done anything to put Allion at ease. The same held true later on, when the hunter remembered the blessing Skull had bestowed upon him just before his departure, and had once again sought enlightenment on the matter from Kae. Unfortunately, the woman had been able to hear only portions of the shaman’s benediction, and had paid little attention even to these. From what snippets she could recall, it had sounded to her more like a divination. Mostly, the A’awari had warned of betrayal. A dragon had been involved, something to the effect of: He would know his true enemy when he made his return to the creature’s lair. Once again, nothing more than superstitious nonsense, Kae had claimed—and most assuredly nothing in which to take heart.

By midafternoon, they had finally reunited with the Second Division, which had been beating its way steadily southward after Jasyn’s advance patrol. Though subdued by the decimation of Corathel’s personal regiment, the Parthans hailed the lieutenant general’s success and the legion commander’s safe return. Against the murdering savages, they would soon have their revenge.

But that had yet to be decided. Despite Darinor’s insistence, Corathel had flatly refused to discuss the Entient’s proposed withdrawal to Atharvan—and from there, the redeployment of the entire legion to Kuuria—while straggling northward with their decimated band. The chief general had listened to the other’s arguments, but would not be drawn into a debate without his more
senior advisors, whom they would find along with the rest of the Second Division. Their council could wait until then.

And so it had, although not a moment longer. Once they had reached their main force, a halt was called to the division’s southward march, and talks convened. While Darinor ducked into a tent with Jasyn, Corathel, and a select few others, Allion had slipped off to be by himself, alone with his torment.

Well, not completely—for Marisha had yet to leave his side. Nor had he asked her to. Even now, he only barely registered her presence, lost as he was to the chorus of continuing screams.

“You cannot go on blaming yourself,” she said, imploring with both words and gaze. One arm hugged his shoulders as he sat against a moss-covered trunk. With the other, she used a finger to gently stroke his stubbled jawline.

“Words, Marisha,” he replied, staring down at the nest of leaves and roots in which he was cradled. “Speaking them doesn’t make them true.”

“No,” she agreed. “You must believe them. And that is what I need you to do.”

He did not respond, refusing to be placated.

“Weave’s sacrifice was just that:
his
sacrifice. To assume responsibility is to take from him that which he freely gave.”

This time, Allion struck the woman with a withering scowl. When he tried to look away again, she caught his chin and held his face to hers.

“Let us do him justice instead, by embracing what he did for us. Let us remember him for his devotion to a cause much greater than himself—a cause that you and I must continue to fight for.”

“I can’t get his cries out of my head,” Allion confessed. Indeed, it seemed as though they would never end.

“Nor should you try. Like so many others we have loved and lost, Weave will live on through our memories. In time, the pain and guilt will lessen, and we will find better ways in which to remember him. I, for one, am reminded of him simply by looking at you.”

“Because I let him die.”

“Because I saw in him a person of staunch and selfless dedication. Because I imagine he was one who found joy in simple pleasures, and in simple goals. Some live their entire lives in search of grandiose dreams, forsaking any and all who cannot carry on alongside. Then, there are those like you and Weave, who are content to play their part, however minuscule it might seem. I may be confused about many things, but I’ve come to believe that
that
is where true nobility lies.”

Something in her voice, an underlying sullenness, caused a strange flutter in Allion’s chest. All at once, he had the impression that she was speaking with a specific person in mind.

“Simple goals, huh?” he muttered dryly. “Is that what drew you to Torin?”

His pulse quickened. Despite his offhanded tone, deep down, he knew it to be a question he should not have asked.

Marisha stiffened and withdrew, confirming his fears and telling him that he had struck the right nerve.

“Looking back, I think it was events, more than anything, that bound us,” she said finally. “That and the Pendant. I was so desperate to understand. With his yearning for the Sword, it just seemed…I don’t know. That there had to be a reason.”

Though looking away now, she fell back into him, laying her head atop his chest. Allion swallowed, feeling her heart as it beat against his side.

“He hasn’t abandoned us, you know. He’s coming back.”

She peered up at him, and Allion was surprised by the intensity in her eyes. “More and more, I wonder if it would be so bad if he didn’t.”

Allion gaped in astonishment. “Marisha!”

Before he could say anything further, her lips were on his. Worse, he was kissing her in return. He knew he should break it off; his thoughts begged him to. But he couldn’t make his body respond.

He knew not how long it lasted. He knew nothing beyond her taste, her scent, and the intense heat that washed through him in waves. She shifted in front of him. Her hands were on his face. His were in her hair. Nothing else mattered to him. Only that he had found his escape—from the sorrow and from the pain—and, in its place, a bliss that was frightening.

Too late, he heard the rustle of nearby brush. He forced himself to pull free, to separate his mouth from hers. Opening his eyes, he gazed past her to see who had come.

Framed in backdrop by the stark and looming branches of a disease-stricken swamp elm, was Darinor.

Allion froze, the risen warmth gushing from his veins. He felt Marisha turn, and heard her startled gasp.

For a long moment, the Entient stood his ground, glaring down on them, caught somewhere between fury and resignation. When at last he moved to cross his arms, Allion flinched, as certain as he’d ever been that his death was upon him.

“Corathel has agreed,” the mystic rumbled. “We make for Atharvan within the hour.”

“Father…” Marisha began.

But Darinor simply spun about and stormed off through the jungle brume, leaving them to the chill of a smothered passion.

T
ORIN HAD JUST ABOUT FALLEN ASLEEP
when there came a knock at his room’s door.

Uncertain of his bearings, he waited for it to sound again. When it did, he rolled up from the lumpy mattress on which he lay and padded toward the disturbance. Before he could think to be more cautious, he threw back the latch and swung the door wide.

There in the hallway of the inn’s upper level stood Saena.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Were you napping?”

“I wish,” he replied. Beset by his relentless doubts, he had spent most of the last hour or so simply staring at the ceiling.

“Where’s Warrlun?” she asked, peering within.

“Making arrangements, I’d guess.”

“May I come in?”

Torin yawned, but opened the door wider to allow her entry.

Saena sniffed. “Your room smells as good as ours.”

Torin shrugged, only half closing the door behind them. The cramped chamber stank of must and mildew. But they had been lucky to acquire rooms at all. The innkeeper of the Giant’s Tongue had laughed, at first, when Warrlun had inquired about space at this or any other inn in town. Only after acknowledging the commander’s rank and accepting a good deal of extra coin had the man agreed to relocate a couple of parties to the common room in order to free up these—one for the men, and one for the girls.

“Shouldn’t you be visiting Traver’s tailor friend right about now?” Torin asked.

Saena did not miss the enmity in his tone. “You’re not still worrying about
him,
are you?”

“Among other things,” he confessed.

“Dyanne and Holly don’t seem too concerned.”

“From what I’ve seen, Dyanne and Holly aren’t concerned by much of anything.”

“Nevertheless,” Saena argued, “in this case, I’d have to agree. Of what harm can he be to the five of us?”

Torin’s count was a bit different, since he wasn’t exactly considering Saena and Warrlun to be on his side. But he saw no benefit in admitting that just now. “I don’t know,” he said instead. “I guess I’ve grown weary of putting my faith in complete strangers.”

“Perhaps you just need an opportunity to ease your mind,” she suggested. She shifted from foot to foot, eyes wandering.

Torin regarded the woman suspiciously. She seemed unusually nervous. “Meaning what?”

“Would it trouble you to accompany me to that festival-opening dance tonight?”

Her gaze pinned his at last. Torin’s thoughts switched suddenly to those of escape. “I’m fairly certain Traver’s invite was for you girls alone.”

“Nonsense. The whole region is invited, which would include you.”

“I’m not exactly in a celebratory mood,” he told her.

“Which is why you should go. It’ll give you a chance to set your cares aside.”

“Some sleep would do better.”

“You tried that already, remember?”

He shook his head. “Saena—”

“Please? If not for yourself, do it for me. I don’t wish to attend alone. Dyanne and Holly have each other. Without a companion, I fear I might seem to Traver like easy prey.”

Torin fiddled with the door pull while peering into Saena’s pleading brown eyes. The last thing he felt like doing was cavorting with a bunch of rowdy strangers. Then again, it might be better that he stay close in order to keep an
eye on Traver, to make sure the ruffian didn’t try anything untoward with any of his companions. Though quite sure each could take care of herself, how would he feel if something happened that he might have prevented?

He looked away, then back to Saena’s anxious face. Holding back a sigh of defeat, he forced instead a meager smile.

“All right.”

“Terrific,” she replied, her familiar beam restored. “I’m off to the tailor, then. The festival is set to begin at dusk, so I’ll meet you back here in a few hours. If you must, try to find your sleep between now and then.”