"All the same, I would like to see her, briefly, then I'll be on my way." Dreslya deliberated a moment before answering. "I suppose no harm could come of it. I'll wait in the hall, but summon me if she stirs. I've begun to fear she'll never awaken." She opened the door and Quinsareth limped inside. "It's foolish worry, I know, but it is a sister's duty." "Quite so, and not so foolish at all," Quin replied.
Dreslya smiled at him. Peering into his eyes, studying his face, her smile faded. He couldn't place the expression she wore, only underlying recognition. Her eyes drifted to the sleeping Elisandrya and back to him. She smiled again, sadly, but nodded knowingly. "You are not what you think you are," she said, "but you'll figure it out one day. So will she." He'd heard rumors of her vision before the battle, of the actions she took. He could see no deception in her face, only subtle wisdom. No response came to him to answer her sudden statement, but it echoed within him, reaching places he rarely visited. Dreslya stepped into the hall and closed the door behind her, leaving Quin to look upon the resting Elisandrya. The moon's glow highlighted her face and hair as he approached and sat on the plain wooden chair by the bed, leaning his sword and shield against the wall. He could not describe what he felt for this strange woman he'd known for less than a day, but something had happened between them, in the shadowalk to Brookhollow, that he could not deny. A connection was made, somehow precipitated by shadows or gods, wild magic or whispered prayers. It seemed as though they'd been acquainted for years, so familiar her face was to him. Clearing his throat, he leaned forward to speak to her, though he knew she could not hear him. "I wish we might have met in some other time," he began, speaking softly. "Some other place or situation. My road rarely crosses with peace or the commonplace, so it is a fanciful wish, but it remains inside of me still. "I have a desire to stay here and wait for you, to discover what might become of us. I don't know, though, if that man exists in me." He paused, contemplating his words as if from a high precipice from which there would be no turning back. "That uncertainty gives me pause. "I am not the man they whisper about in the streets, this warrior out of a prophecy that endures in spite of its falseness. My contribution was incidental, a matter of habit, no different than what I always do. I did nothing out of purpose or goodwill for these people, though their tales in days to come may tell otherwise. You were the one who defied and stood, who fought for your home and a cause. I was just a sword, a footnote in your legend." He looked out the window, an emptiness settling in his stomach as thin clouds passed lazily across the moon. In their shadow, he rested his head in his hands, feeling his pulse pounding in his temples. That moment he'd left her bleeding as he pursued Morgynn into the temple had replayed itself a hundred times as he imagined himself sitting here with her.
He could still feel her hand on his cheek as he resolved what he must do. "I'm just a ghost, Elisandrya Loethe, passing through," he said, staring at the floor. Looking at her face, at her closed eyes, and listening to her soft breathing he added, "And you deserve more than that." He stood then, still watching her, and lifted his sword and shield from the floor. Turning away, he limped toward the door and stopped. Raising the shield before him, he contemplated the profile etched in the metal and turned back to lay it gently at her side.
The night air was cool as he made his way to the small eastern gate behind the temple. He sat by the wall for a while, unable to sleep. He'd listened to the whispering voices of those still awake in the temple's courtyard. He heard some of them wondering about all that had happened, asking why as they studied a sky newly returned after the storm. The question had never occurred to him, and he wasn't sure that it mattered. He supposed an answer might exist, somewhere in the past, now lost. The consequences of a moment gone awry had come to haunt the present. The idea filled his thoughts as he waited, watching the night pass. The soft glow of sunrise encroached upon the stars, but they were not yet dimmed when he felt the stirring in his blood, saw the distant horizon come alive with flickering shadow for his eyes alone. "East again," he muttered grimly, groaning as he stood. The eastern horizon taunted him as it had for months, always calling him closer to that from which he'd run. Unfathomable miles still separated him from the River of Swords, yet its nearness concerned him. Pain still ached within his body from Morgynn's magic, but did not bother him so much as the other pain he felt, wondering what he should do if he refused the call he'd followed for so many years. He watched the shadows for long heartbeats, standing still in the cold as he imagined other paths, places of his own choosing. Lowering his head, he took one step forward and faded away, leaving only wisps of swiftly dispersing shadow behind him.
That same dawn, Elisandrya awoke, weakened and in pain but insistent upon standing on her own two feet, despite her sister's protestations. Dreslya had told her of Quinsareth's visit while she studied the shield he'd left, instantly surmising what it was, having seen its depiction in the murals of the temple's sanctuary. A legend come to life, the Shield of Ossian from her childhood stories. Her eyes widened in shock as she realized what she was truly seeing in the shield's face. "Where has he gone?" she asked, gingerly pulling herself up on Dres's staff, using it as a makeshift crutch. "I don't know. I never saw him leave the room. When I asked the guards outside, they remembered seeing him walking toward the eastern gate." Later, after making her way past her worrying sister, she'd walked to the wall around the Gardens of Thought on the backside of the temple, overlooking the small eastern gate, seldom used. The sun had just risen above the horizon, the warmth on her skin feeling strange after so many days under the storm. She knew he was gone, having knowledge of him she couldn't explain or put into words. Watching the grass stir in the warm wind, she searched the horizon, squinting in the sun's light and wondering where he was going, and if she might find him. The image on the shield, burned in her mind, would not leave her thoughts as she sought the tiny chance of catching his silhouette in the sunrise. The shield still lay on the bed she'd rested in, next to her father's bow, her own portrait etched on its face. about the author James P. Davis is a freelance author who is often found with a pen and notepad close at hand. He started writing in high school upon the advice of an excellent English teacher and has worked toward becoming a professional writer ever since. With a new novel in progress and several more waiting impatiently for their turn inside his head, he has no intention of stopping anytime soon. His first published work was the short story "Possessions," which appeared in Realms of the Dragons II. James lives in Shreveport, Louisiana with his lovely wife Megan and a psychotic cat mistakenly named after a demon prince.
Bloodwalk is his first novel.