“What are you gawking at?” she demanded, raising an eyebrow at him.
He closed his mouth with a snap. “Your face-the wounds-” he breathed.
She gave a snort. “You can add poet after horse trader on your list of unlikely professions.”
Even in the faint silver light she could see the color rise to his cheeks, but it was quickly masked over by a rogue’s grin. “It took me by surprise, is all,” he said. “I meant to say that you look lovely this evening.”
“How goes the reunion over there?” she asked in a flat tone. He took the hint to change the subject and followed her gaze toward the campfire.
“I believe they have discussed every last detail of the terrain for a hundred miles in any direction. There is no angle of approach that will allow us near the hive unseen, however, especially with the marked increase in activity around it in recent days. They are all looking to Amric to concoct some magic scheme-” his face wrinkled as he seemed to regret his own choice of words “-that will enable a ragtag band of blades to snatch their friends from under the noses of an army of undying creatures. It seems he has a history of pulling off strategic miracles.”
“He does seem a man for miracles at times,” Thalya mused, studying the warmaster and the Sil’ath warriors gathered around him, hanging on his every word and gesture. “There is something about him that inspires confidence. I only hope it is justified, if we are to leave this wasteland alive.”
When she received no response, she turned her head to find Syth’s eyes upon her in the dark, his expression carefully neutral. A brittle smile spread across her features.
“Whatever is the matter, Syth?” she asked in a sweet and dangerous tone. “Does it bother you that I might admire the swordsman?”
“No, of course-”
“Will you duel for my affections, then?” she pressed, anger seeping into her voice. “Or did I miss the part where you already staked your claim to me? I hope you struck a better trade than when you bought your horse earlier.”
He looked bewildered now, taken aback at her hostility. “No, that’s not it at all. I-”
She leaned in toward him. “Are we to rut like animals here and now?” she breathed, putting a new kind of heat into her words. “Or wait until the others are asleep?”
“You don’t understand,” he said, raising his hands before him to fend her off. “I did not mean-I only wanted-” His shoulders slumped and he shook his head as the ever-present wind whirled about him in fitful gusts. “I am afraid I am not very good with people.”
She stiffened as the words stung her. Her own words to Halthak, spoken mere minutes ago, and she had proven their veracity again.
“Since we rescued you, I have been seeking every opportunity to be near you,” he said softly. “Every time I resolve not to make a fool of myself before you, and every time I prove myself a liar.”
She wanted to mouth a scathing reply, to insist that he did not know her, could not know her, that this pathetic act of devotion did not suit him and was but a poor mask for his baser intentions. Anything to make him leave. But the words lodged in her throat, and in the end she forced her eyes back to the fire reflected in the ripples of the pond. Syth sat a few feet away, not looking at her, seeming uncertain whether to leave or try again to explain.
She cleared her throat at last. “They seem very happy to be together again,” she said, nodding toward Amric and the Sil’ath warriors. Between periods of intense discussion across the campfire, there were warm smiles and low laughter, and on occasion one figure would give another a playful shove in response to some jest.
“There is sorrow for the deceased, and worry for those still lost, as well as tension for the morrow,” Syth said, appearing grateful for the change of subject. “But yes, there is an abiding joy as well. They are family, and in all honesty, it made me feel uncomfortable to be over there, an outsider among them. It gave me the opportunity to….” He trailed off and looked away.
“To come over here and instead be attacked by a stranger?” she prompted with a wry smile. “It was unfair of me, Syth, I am sorry. But you do not know me, and I have been desired solely for my appearance before.”
His face swung back toward her in the silvery light. “Then tell me of yourself. And let me tell you of myself. I have a sense that you grow tired of being an outsider as well.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I keep expecting the brash fellow who has been trying to impress me these past few days to make a sudden return.”
“Oh, he is still in here, clamoring to slip his bonds,” he assured her with a sly wink. “Or perhaps he is scouring the night for some jeweled bauble he is hoping to trade for your affections. We had best talk quickly, before he returns.”
She laughed and shook her head. “I think you are better with people than you are aware, Syth.”
“That is a kind thing to say,” he remarked, drawing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them.
She smiled. “A friend told me that recently, when I needed to hear it.”
CHAPTER 18
Through the velvet folds of the dream, grasping hands reached for him. He spun away, trying as he did so to discern their owner, but the phantom figure faded back from him like smoke before the wind. Alert for the next attack, he strove to bring the distorted milieu of the dream into focus, but focus was elusive as well; reality wavered and shuddered, but refused to converge. Angry now, he sought identity instead, and this at least came more readily. His name, he knew upon reflection, was Amric. He was warrior and warmaster, and he would not be denied. With identity came purpose, and he peeled at the intervening layers of the subconscious. Hazy at the forward fringe of his vision, the figure whirled and fled. His swords flashed into his hands, and he leapt in pursuit.
He sped after the darting shadow, racing through a realm of mist. Obstacles reared from the fog, forcing him to hurdle and dodge, and his quarry, seeming more familiar with the terrain, drew steadily away from him. He redoubled his efforts, but still the figure dwindled in the distance. Grinding his teeth in frustration, he pressed on. Sentinel shapes pressed forth from the mist, resolving into huge trees, and sunlight pierced the grey ceiling above to speckle the matted ground before him. A thick, verdant forest coalesced about him as he ran, and its appearance tugged at his memory. It bore a striking resemblance, he realized after a moment, to the sprawling woodlands surrounding Lyden where he had spent his youth among the Sil’ath, hunting and exploring.
The sights and smells slipped easily about him, familiar and comforting as a long-worn glove. It was like returning home, and he could see why he might have summoned these remembered environs in a dream, but the forest seemed determined to prove a hindrance to his progress. Every rock tilted beneath his boot heel, every upturned root caught at his passing foot, every wind-waved branch swayed into his path. At the same time, his quarry seemed to suffer no such difficulties, and even as he struggled past he wondered at how the land he loved could so favor another.
The shadow melted from sight far ahead, and Amric ran on, following on pure instinct. The towering trees whipped by as he ran, and several times he would have sworn they shifted somehow to shoulder him from his path. Twisting and darting, he wound his way among them, his fury undiminished.
He slid to a halt in a sunlit clearing, his skin prickling with warning. His eyes narrowed. He tightened his grips on the swords until the muscles of his arms stood corded in sharp relief, and he began a slow circuit of the clearing, moving with a panther’s stride. He reached his arrival point and stopped, frowning. Something was amiss here, he could feel it. He scanned the ring of trees and saw nothing out of place. His gaze fell then upon the grassy center of the clearing, and he froze. He saw his trampled path circumscribing the glade, except for one side where it veered gently inward, away from the perimeter. He had not meant to do that, and did not remember altering his path in that manner. He stalked toward it, and found himself abruptly at the edge of the clearing. He whirled and saw that he had swerved again, away from that spot.