The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (53 page)

He had just about summoned the courage to do so when he saw Jaecy once more. The serving girl was clinging to some fashionable rogue out on the dance floor, doing nothing to discourage his hands as they slipped lower and lower about her waist. But unless Torin was mistaken, she was staring right
past her partner, fixing her eyes on
him
. When she caught Torin looking at her, she sent him a wink.

His resolve crumbled—not because he was enticed by Jaecy’s interest, but because it occurred to him that he might do all a favor by accepting his limitations, settling for someone who clearly fancied him, rather than pining for someone like Dyanne, whose matchless perfection would seem to place her forever beyond his undeserving reach.

At that moment, a bell mounted in a tower above the pavilion sounded the midnight hour. Almost at once, the music tapered off. Many in attendance groaned with disappointment.

“What’s happening?” Torin asked of a stranger beside him at the rail.

“Curfew,” the other replied, turning already for the exit.

Just like that, the evening had come to an end. City guardsmen stepped forward, urging the revelers to depart. Many seemed only too eager to comply, to head back to their inns and homes for sleep or else other, wilder forms of entertainment. Torin, however, felt his heart sink. Though he hadn’t even wanted to attend, he felt cheated by the abrupt conclusion.

As the crowds began to disperse, he looked for his friends. Saena had left him only moments earlier, but might have been anywhere. He thought to stay at the rail so that
she
could find
him,
until an overzealous soldier prodded him along.

He was filing out with all the rest, head bowed with regret and frustration, when someone grabbed him unexpectedly by the arm. He glanced over, certain to find either Saena or Jaecy peering up at him.

It was Dyanne.

He blinked, so surprised that he nearly swooned. He looked down to where she held his arm, which tingled with the warmth of her touch. She glanced back and forth at the masses around them, then led him aside into the shadow of one of the pavilion’s supports.

“What is it?” he asked. It was all he could squeeze past the lump in his throat.

She pulled him close, facing him squarely. “Did you learn anything tonight?”

Their escorts, Torin recalled with an effort. He shook his head. “Nothing useful. What about Traver?”

“A harmless lecher, from what I’ve gathered. Spent half the night trying to look down my bodice.”

Torin could not tell if she was flattered by the notion, or embarrassed. All he could think of was how marvelous this woman was, how blessed he felt to be here and now the center of her attention. Even among so many people, it seemed to him that they were alone in all the world.

His stomach tightened. He could deny the truth no longer. Despite his quest, despite Marisha, he had to know what Dyanne might feel for him. Nor could he imagine a better opportunity to find out. The magic of this moment was unmistakable, like that in which he had first drawn the Sword of Asahiel.

“Where’s Holly?” he asked, buying time as he fought for the right words.

Dyanne huffed. “Traver’s trying to convince her to let him show her a
truly
good time.”

“What’s wrong? Are you feeling left out?” he remarked, and immediately cursed the day he’d been born. The words had been a reflex, laced with jealousy and sarcasm, born of the secret fear that, indeed, it was Traver’s affection she desired. Regardless, that was not the message he had hoped to convey.

Dyanne scoffed, and punched him playfully, giving him a chance, perhaps, to redeem himself. Yet any other words he might offer were buried beneath their own weight. He couldn’t simply blurt out how utterly enthralling he found her. He had to find a way to soften the blow.

In the meantime, he knew that he should at least apologize. But before he could even do that much, Saena found them.

“Are we ready?”

Torin thought to excuse himself and Dyanne for a moment longer, yet wasn’t sure how to do so. When Holly and Traver sidled up to them, he knew his moment had passed.

“We’re not spending the night out here, are we?” the smaller Nymph demanded. Though Traver hovered over her, it appeared clear that she had spurned his offer.

She continued past, dark threads of hair draped upon her tiny shoulders. Perhaps it was the energy of the night that lent such a bold spring to her step. Dyanne turned to follow. Saena led Torin after.

They paused in a long line of others to retrieve their cloaks, then huddled one last time beneath the pavilion awning.

“I suppose I’ll see you all tomorrow, then,” Traver said.

“Bright and early,” Dyanne assured him.

The rogue spoke vaguely to Torin. “I trust you will see the ladies safely back to the Giant’s Tongue?”

Torin glared in response. Traver wasn’t even looking at him; rather, he was glancing about as the dregs of the crowd filtered past, no doubt searching for one who might yet accept his evening’s proposal.

Damn you,
was Torin’s only manageable thought.

His curse was not directed toward Traver.

H
E WAS STILL BERATING HIMSELF THE NEXT MORNING,
when he awoke to realize that the previous night had been more than just a dream. In a way, he was grateful, for it meant that the many images he had captured in the shadow of that central pavilion—images he had recounted time and again throughout his sleeping hours—were in fact real moments that he might cherish forever. By the same token, it meant the conclusion to that evening—that which had caused him such bittersweet torment—could not now be simply blinked away.

It seemed almost impossible that he could be so foolish. For all he knew, his quiet moment with Dyanne had been the only one she would ever offer him. And he had wasted it. Throughout the hours of restless slumber that had followed, he had fought to change the words that had escaped his mouth—those he had spoken to her when it would have been better to say nothing at all. Alas, only the darkness had been there to listen.

He closed his eyes with a silent groan, unsure which he should be more ashamed of: his inability to express his true feelings, or the fact that he should even want to do so, given his betrothal to Marisha. He’d been so quick to judge Traver, when he himself was no better than a faithless rogue. For what would he do if he were to discover that Dyanne cared for him? Would he be able to ignore her as he had Jaecy? Or would he forsake his private vows and betray the young Lewellyn who but a short time ago had been the measure of his entire world?

Bile filled Torin’s mouth as a wave of self-loathing washed over him. Regardless of the answer, how could he continue to indulge this obsession? He had far too many pressing concerns to make matters of the heart a priority. He had a task to complete, and as soon as that goal was achieved, he would be leaving this land and all of its inhabitants behind.

And that was exactly as he wanted it.

He forced his eyes open again, waving aside the demons that picked like ravens at his heart. Predawn shadows blanketed the room’s contents, like dust-covered linens draped over abandoned stores. His gaze shifted to the bed that lay empty beside his own. Its sheets remained tucked and folded, unused during the night. Warrlun had never returned, having opted to remain with Ethric, most likely, after their long evening of outfitting and prepara
tion. While the history between Traver and Warrlun went way back, Torin had learned that it was old man Ethric, Traver’s senior partner, who had led those Finlorian-hunting expeditions of long ago. No doubt, Lorre’s chief commander and former lead bounty hunter had much about which to reminisce.

As if summoned by his musings, there came the scrape of a key in the outer door lock. The inner latch was already lifted free, left open in case Warrlun should decide to return in the middle of the night. Beneath his covers, Torin reached for the Crimson Sword, which lay sheathed on the mattress beside him.

As expected, it was Warrlun who shoved his way into the room. He appeared almost disappointed to find that Torin was already awake.

“Up,” the old soldier barked. “It’ll be daylight soon.”

“Just getting my bearings,” Torin grumbled.

“Wake the girls and meet me out back by the horses. We’re on our way before the sun hits its first mark.”

With one hand on the scabbard and the other on the hilt, Torin was fully prepared to draw his blade and run the commander through if it would appease his own simmering frustrations. But before he could even complete the thought, the old soldier turned and stomped away, leaving his key in the lock and the door open wide.

T
IME DID NOT PERMIT FOR BREAKFAST,
so they packed it for the road, adding fruits and cheeses and fresh-baked breads from the Giant’s Tongue to the stores of nuts and vegetables and dried meats that would sustain the members of their company in the days ahead. The task was assigned to Saena, while Torin worked alongside Dyanne and Holly to saddle the horses. Warrlun stood by, contributing now and then with a snide comment or stern command. For once, however, Torin was grateful for the soldier’s presence, as it provided a ready excuse for his own gruff silence as he fought to keep his eyes from Dyanne.

When all had been made ready, the five from Neak-Thur led their mounts to a set of stables attached to the rear of the tiny expeditioner’s storefront at which they had first stopped on their way into town. There, they were greeted by a leering Traver, whose red-rimmed eyes had darkened from lack of sleep. They stood around for only a few moments while Warrlun and the wispy-haired Ethric engaged in private conference—barely long enough to be introduced to the pair of Traver’s men who would be accompanying them. Trackers both, it was said, and accomplished mountain rangers. Torin forgot their names as soon as they were given, as disinterested in them as they seemed to be in him.

They set off together, picking their way down muddied streets toward Vagarbound’s central gates. Dawn’s rays had yet to break over the steep ridge of the Dragontails to the east, its arrival naught but a muted glow through drizzly skies. Nevertheless, the town was already astir. Last night had been just the beginning, Traver informed them, riding beside the girls. Starting today, the weeklong festival would commence in earnest, with events and
contests and prizes that promised laughs and excitement for all. A pity, he claimed, that they could not remain but a few more days. For once, Torin did not completely disagree with the man. Perhaps if they were to stay even a little longer, he might find a chance to relive—and rewrite the ending to—last night’s episode.

The gates had only just been opened when Torin’s company reached them. Once again, they were compelled to wait in line while teams of clerks and watchmen cleared those coming and going. There were a great many more seeking entry than exit, Torin noted—thankfully so, as now that he could see the open road, he felt anxious to be upon it.

“Good speed, Commander,” the gate guard bade Warrlun as the approval to leave was given.

The old soldier grunted, returning the other’s salute as he spurred his mount out onto the downward-sloping roadway. Traver followed, accepting a nod from the guardsman that seemed to the suspicious Torin a little too familiar. The girls went next, with Torin on their heels and Traver’s hounds trailing.

They had to ride west a fair ways before the road turned north again, skirting the line of the mountains. All the while, they rode in silence—except Traver, whose mouth never stopped moving. Torin’s brow soon ached from glaring so hard. He had expected that once he was free of the city and the false sense of calm generated by its merrymakers, his wayward thoughts would be swept aside by a renewed urgency. But while the relative solitude did indeed sharpen his focus with regard to his quest, not even the chill northern winds could smother the coals glowing deep within his breast. Envy and longing burned constantly, as mile after mile, league after league, he watched Dyanne laugh and smile and respond with wonder to the various jests and compliments and tales with which Traver kept himself and the others entertained. She couldn’t possibly be as amused as she pretended to be, but that didn’t matter to Torin. All that mattered was that she should allow one such as Traver the enduring pleasure of her conversation, while he himself was left trailing behind like some baggage handler in a royal train.

Of course, that was more his fault than hers. Were he not so craven, he too might share her company, rather than merely serve witness to it. Dyanne had always seemed confident, fully content with just Holly’s companionship. But never had she truly behaved in a manner he might brand haughty or disdainful. In essence, it was not
she
who was keeping this distance between them.

But moments of such clarity visited him seldom, and even then were quickly buried beneath irrational fears. He could deny it if he wished, but the truth was, Dyanne was developing an attachment to this rogue—moment by moment, hour by hour—leaving Torin at a loss to explain why. Traver was a tall man with thick bones and an athletic build. But he wasn’t what Torin would allow as handsome, and was much too old for her in any case. His gracious smirk might have been wiped away by a wind gust. Perhaps it was the man’s false charm, his invasive gaze, or the fact that his head, much like Wedge Commander Jaik’s, appeared too large when compared to his body.
Whichever trait she found so endearing, Torin wished that he could borrow it for but a little while, just long enough to see if she might take a similar fancy to him.

Instead, he was forced to carry on behind the woman as he had from the beginning, an unnoticed observer, with no choice but to remind himself that despite all they’d been through, he barely knew her. Certainly her attentions were none of his affair.

“Are you feeling all right?” Saena asked him, and only then did he realize how unusually quiet she had been all day.

“Well enough,” he muttered, watching his breath cloud the air. “Just looking forward to finishing this business.”

Saena nodded, then slipped back into silence. All of a sudden, Torin felt a pang of guilt that had nothing to do with his heart’s betrayal of Marisha. For it occurred to him in that moment just how much he had come to rely upon Saena’s presence—and how he continued to take it for granted. His thankless manner should have driven her away long ago. Yet for some reason, she insisted on being the friend that he so desperately needed here in this strange land. Perhaps it was time to lay his suspicions to rest and do more to express his appreciation.

But he said nothing, turning both his gaze and his roiling thoughts back to Dyanne.

They spent the night in the shadow of the mountains, at the base of the pass known as Goblin Reach. Snow dusted the trail as it climbed into the rocks ahead, providing a glimpse of that which they could expect to find amid the higher elevations. Barring ill fortune, they would be through the pass in a day or two, beyond which lay the Splinterwood. While many of the signs discovered years ago suggested that the Finlorians had fled into the highest reaches of the Trollslay and Wyvern Spur Mountains, Traver was among those who believed that the elven folk would have eventually made their way down into what was commonly known as the Forgotten Forest, a vast stretch of ancient wilderness grown up between those twin prongs of the northern Dragontails. It was there that the search would begin.

Never mind that trackers and hunters and frontiersmen of every variety—himself included—had been scouring that forest for decades, Traver snickered, and found no traceable sign.

Torin kept waiting for Warrlun to order the rogue to be silent, but he never did. Instead, Traver prattled on while Torin consumed a relatively tasteless dinner without interest. Despite his best efforts to disappear within himself, he could not help but sneak an occasional glance in Dyanne’s direction, hoping that she might acknowledge him in even the tiniest way. But she seemed to be genuinely absorbed in the rogue’s blather, encouraging him with her ready responses and pressing for more with her many questions. Holly was no help, as she was behaving much the same. Torin wanted to suggest that if they were to stop feigning interest, the rogue might actually stop, but he did not want the kind of attention such an outburst might bring.

So he chewed his food and kept his tongue, ignoring—and for the most
part ignored by—his companions. Once or twice he felt compelled to grunt or shrug in response to an aside from Saena, but in general, even she let him be. At last, with Traver’s voice echoing in his ears, Torin crawled beneath his lean-to, burrowed into his bedroll, and bade silent riddance to the grueling day.

He awoke among a bed of misty tendrils sprouted forth from the sodden land. Once again, he had scarcely slept, haunted by fears and suspicions and desires and regrets too numerous to recount. Most troubling of all, perhaps, was the understanding that this might continue for weeks or months. Until they were able to drive the Finlorians from hiding, or until his current comrades tired of the search, he could expect to endure an intolerable string of days like the last.

His chest ached at the prospect.

He found no time to sulk, however, as Warrlun beat them all from their tents and into action before the break of dawn. As before, Saena was put in charge of breakfast, while Torin and the Nymphs and Traver’s hounds—Brolin and Kifur—broke camp. Warrlun and Traver kept to one side, discussing the day’s plans.

They started out beneath another light rain; by now, Torin was simply grateful that it was not a heavy one. He was far less pleased with their travel formation, which remained as before—with him stuck near the rear, watching Traver carry along beside his companions from the Fenwood. By midmorning, he was seething over Dyanne’s refusal to simply dismiss Traver as the charlatan that he was. The man’s tales had become ever more grandiose—and, to Torin’s ears, increasingly absurd. But the girls, especially Dyanne, seemed to hang upon the charming rogue’s every word, forcing Torin to swallow his skepticism and say nothing.

He was beginning to wonder if the problem lay with Traver at all. For all his scathing reservations, he alone seemed unable to trust the man. Saena had expressed empathy, at least, but that wasn’t the same as having worries of her own. Might it be that only his fierce and senseless jealousy was fostering his mistrust?

But no allowances could lay his feelings to rest. Nor did it seem to matter that it was best he should keep his distance from Dyanne for the sake of Marisha. Despite a heavy cloak of guilt, his envy was a blade that would not be turned aside.

It continued to cut at him as the snow cover thickened and the temperatures dropped. They were well up into the mountains by now, surrounded by ice and rock and gusting winds. Torin was readily reminded of his trek through the Dragonscale Cleft much farther to the south, and followed carefully the path forged by his guides. His eyes drifted from peak to peak, searching for anything that might result in a rockfall or avalanche.

Even then, his overall focus remained on Dyanne. Foolish as it was, he could not seem to stop. He told himself that he was hoping for too much, yearning for something he could never have. A mortal did not ask for the hand of a goddess. But with the majesty of her presence shining consistently before him, it was too much to prevent himself from dreaming.