"Ripples of action preclude each moment and affect all whom we touch.
If you could see just one ripple, you might see them all and what is to come." Quin raised his head and met her eyes again in defiance. "I have seen what prophecy accomplishes," he said, hardening his gaze.
"In Logfell. In Targris. Do these circles reach only as far as the edge of your own safety, prophet?" Sameska's eyes widened in fear and she shook her head as he spoke the names of those towns aloud. She looked away, breaking the stare between them. Her demeanor collapsed, leaving her looking as old and lost as her advanced years. Her voice, when it returned, cracked and shook, but conveyed her words clearly to all. "You are an assassin, Hoarite. A killer without conscience who hunts for justice at the whim of a bitter god." She looked at him with red-rimmed eyes. "Your judgment carries no weight here." "Agreed," he said matter-of-factly, stepping closer to her. "Now tell me all that you have seen, that I might finish my hunt and leave this place." She stared a moment longer into his opal eyes. He gave back nothing but nonchalant acceptance of what she had obviously intended as an insult.
He had no illusions about his place in the world. Though uncertain at times as to what his conscience would or would not accept, he felt sure he could endure her hasty judgment without shame. "The Tower of Jhareat in the Qurth forest," she responded weakly. "There awaits a sorceress in blooded robes with a host of unseen creatures at her command. I felt their presence, nothing more. They have lain there several days at least." She hung her head as she said the last, as if divulging the last of her secrets. He expected the full sum of her secrets remained hidden, but he had what he needed and cared little for the rest. Quinsareth stood a moment longer, anger and pity in his eyes, then turned and walked out without a word. Elisandrya followed.
He could hear her purposeful stride gaining on him. He quickened his step as much to escape the temple as to avoid the look he imagined in her eyes.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"Wait!" Elisandrya yelled against the storm's fury, roaring through the open doors of the temple. Quinsareth would not listen, intent on leaving and tired of talk. He'd had enough exchanges in the last few days to realize he had forgotten himself. He had become involved, and it threatened to compromise his judgment. His business was in the Qurth, in Jhareat. For learning that one fact, he was thankful for this diversion to Brookhollow. The sooner done, the sooner he could go. "Stop, dammit!" Elisandrya grabbed his arm before he could step out the doors, her tone angry and desperate. Reflexively he reached for Bedlam and met her eyes. His hand never touched the blade, nor had he wanted to, but her eyes tore into him more effectively than any sword. In her eyes he saw a person he admired, a person he might have aspired to be like, who knew the difference between hope and despair and strove to act on that knowledge. He saw the humanity he had abandoned and the will to do good he had dismissed as the dreamings of wide-eyed children beset by the evils of the world. He was crushed in her stare. "An assassin, then? Is that all?"
He pulled away and turned, closing the heavy doors and shutting out the storm. They could hear the echo of the sanctuary doors slamming shut. The silence that followed was almost humbling. Alone in the small foyer, surrounded by high windows and flashes of lightning, they stared at each other, emotions unbalanced by uncertainty and the presence of each other. "Well?" Eli's question hung between them. "An assassin is a better man than I, Elisandrya. An assassin acts on behalf of his employer and receives good coin. I act only on behalf of the dead and receive little more than good riddance." "I don't believe that. We saw each other plainly in those shadows you call a road. The dark of that place could not hide the good I saw in you." "A mere trick of blood. I bear the curse of any aasimar who desires to walk a normal life, to be human…" He searched her stare, seeking understanding. "To have a choice." She didn't respond, softening her stare a little. He didn't watch her long, afraid to see any glimmer of the pity to which he had no right. Instead, he walked into a patch of darkness, untouched by the few weak torches that lit the room. He looked up at the windows and watched as clouds churned and spat white fire, growling as they deluged the city with rain. Inwardly, he sought a truce between what he knew and what he felt. Quin struggled to reconcile his level of involvement with this woman and what he must do. "Tell me about the Tower of Jhareat," he asked nonchalantly. "I gathered from Sameska's words that it is well known in this region?"
Eli stared into the distance, her thoughts miles away from his question. Pulling herself back, she answered. "That tale is from the end of the Calishite rule over the Border Kingdoms, and Shandolphyn's Reach in particular," she said, still staring blankly. "It begins with the death of a young woman. "Her name was Zemaan. Captured and forced into slavery by the Calishite wizards who ruled Jhareat, she was the lover of a young Shaaryan warrior called Ossian. Many Shaaryans met the same fate as she, being fodder for the Calishites. It is said that Ossian swore an oath and vowed to destroy Jhareat. Many laughed at his wild boast, but the shamans of his tribe were not so dismissive. "The tales are numerous about Ossian's exploits in gathering the scattered tribes over the following years, leading them into attacks against the eastern edges of the empire. "The heart of the story is about Ossian's love for Zemaan and a powerful shield he wore into battle. Forged by Shaaryan shamans for his crusade, it protected him against the Calishites' magic. Its powers were invisible until tested, and then it was too late. "The only thing the shield would not let Ossian hide was the love in his heart. Its face, which had been blank until he touched it, bore the image of Zemaan, so his enemies could see what he fought for. "His war against the Calishites came to Jhareat, and the shamans and warriors of the Shaar caused a slave rebellion within the city. As his fellow tribesmen died around him, and protected against the wizards' spells, Ossian slew the lord sorcerer of Jhareat, fulfilling his oath and dying soon thereafter. "Legend says that Ossian's spirit still guards the tower with his shield, standing vigilant against encroaching evil." Elisandrya smiled bitterly and added, "I guess it's just a legend-a hero's story to tell sleepy children at night."
Quinsareth listened quietly, observing Eli's love for the tale as she told it. He nodded gently at the end. "Legends and stories are usually preferable to the truth." Eli pondered this and stared out the window at the storm's fury. "Truth edges closer every moment," she sighed.
Looking back toward the closed sanctuary, she narrowed her eyes. "I wonder what legends will come of our tale." Quinsareth did not reply.
He gathered his cloak around his shoulders and pulled the hood over his head. Walking toward the temple doors, he reached to open them, but Eli's voice stopped him. "What did you speak of to Sameska? About Logfell and Targris?" He let his hands fall to his sides. Closing his eyes, he remembered the rain and the growls, the taste of blood as the ogre's magic tore at his body, the old man standing calmly as his people picked up the pieces of their interrupted lives. "Targris was attacked. A small force of gnolls led by an ogre wizard took the city by night." He turned and regarded her from beneath the cloak's cowl.