Without another word, Breck began to lead Alias’s horse back to the clearing where they’d left Alias and Dragonbait. Zhara followed, lost in thought.
They found Dragonbait starting a cooking fire in the center of the clearing. Alias was grooming Breck’s horse at the edge of the clearing with her back to the saurial. She kept her face a tight mask of concentration, trying to hide her turbulent mood.
Breck led Alias’s horse over to a tree near Alias and wrapped its lead rope around a branch. His horse’s saddle and saddlebags were spread out over a fallen tree.
“I went in your saddlebags for your brushes,” Alias said.
“That’s fine,” Breck replied. “Hand me my scraper, and I’ll start on your horse,” he offered, unsaddling Alias’s mount. He laid the saddle on the fallen tree beside his own and tossed the sweaty horse blanket on top.
Alias handed a sweat scraper to the ranger.
As Breck began cleaning off Alias’s horse he said, “I’m sorry I accused you of helping Zhara escape.”
Alias shrugged. “You didn’t know how I felt about her.”
“You didn’t like her even before you knew she was your—um—one of your look-alikes, did you?” Breck asked.
“No, I didn’t,” Alias said.
“You know, she doesn’t seem all that bad. Uh … she’s loyal to her husband at least,” Breck said.
“Hmph!” Alias snorted. “She’s just a good actress,” the swordswoman replied spitefully.
“Dragonbait seems to like her.”
“Dragonbait is a fool,” Alias snarled.
Startled by the swordswoman’s vehemence, Breck didn’t reply. Alias finished grooming Breck’s horse in silence. Then she pulled her saddlebags off her saddle and walked away to another tree at the edge of the clearing. She sat down beneath the tree and began to remove her armor.
When Breck finished grooming Alias’s horse, he strolled over to the cooking fire. Dragonbait and Zhara had made up a delicious-looking stew from the rations and some wild herbs the saurial had collected along the trek. The saurial signed something to Zhara.
“Dragonbait wants you to take a bowl to Alias.” Zhara explained to the ranger.
“Uh, sure,” Breck said. “Does she usually stay angry with you for a long time?” he asked.
Dragonbait signed something for Zhara to translate.
“She’s never been angry at him before,” Zhara said.
“Great,” the ranger muttered. “As if we didn’t have enough problems with this hunt.” He carried some bread and a bowl of stew for himself and one for the swordswoman over to the edge of the clearing, where Alias sat polishing her sword.
Alias looked up when the ranger approached. “I’m not hungry,” she said.
“You’ve got to eat,” Breck insisted squatting down beside her.
“What’s the point?” Alias asked.
“The point!” the ranger exclaimed. “The point is that you promised Lord Mourngrym you’d help me bring Akabar and Grypht back to the tower, which you can’t do if you fall off your horse from hunger. And if keeping your word to Mourngrym isn’t enough, remember, Grypht knows where Nameless is. I thought you wanted to find Nameless.”
“I do,” Alias said, a spark of hope in her voice once more.
“Then eat your dinner,” Breck said.
Alias took the bowl from Breck.
“Mind if I join you?” Breck asked.
“Suit yourself,” Alias said. “I’m afraid I’m not very good company just now, though.”
“Neither am I, so we should get along just fine,” Breck retorted, tearing the hunk of bread in half and tossing her a piece.”
Alias grinned ruefully.
“I never did hear what you had to say about Nameless,” the ranger said.
“I don’t know what I was going to say,” Alias admitted. She scooped up a mouthful of stew. When she was finished chewing and swallowing, she asked, “What do you want to know about him?”
“Do you love him?” Breck asked.
“He’s my father” Alias answered, as if that explained everything.
“But do you love him?” Breck asked again.
“He made me everything I am,” the swordswoman said. “I owe him my life.”
Breck took a mouthful of stew.
“I told Morala I loved him,” Alias continued. She tried to convince me I shouldn’t. You’re not going to try to do that, too, are you?”
“I don’t know Nameless well enough,” Breck said, shaking his head. Privately the ranger wondered what game Morala had been playing. “Were those his songs you were singing last night at The Old Skull?” he asked.
“Mostly,” Alias replied.
Breck waited until she’d sopped up the last bit of gravy from her bowl with the remaining bread, then asked, “Would you sing that song about the nymph again—for me?”
Alias looked down at the ground, hiding her look of uncertainty and fear. She wanted Breck to admire Nameless’s work. The song about the nymph would sound so natural out here in the forest. She had to risk singing the song, even if its meaning became twisted. “Of course,” she said to Breck with an unsteady smile.
Alias set her bowl down and cleared her throat with a sip of water. With a hostile glance toward the sky, she directed an impromptu petition to the gods: I already know about Moander, and I want to help Nameless, so please don’t ruin this song.
In the peaceful forest surroundings, Alias began singing, far more softly than she had been able to back in Jhaele’s noisy tavern. She began the song with a series of wordless siren calls, then sang the first lyrics: “ ‘Dappled sunlight dances around a foxglove spike, then transforms into a vision both warm and womanlike.’ ”
Breck leaned back against a tree and closed his eyes.
Alias’s eyes wandered around the moonlit clearing, imagining the sun on the golden-leafed trees and the bright berries and wild flowers. She sang the song through without a hitch. When she was finished, she glanced at Breck to see if he was pleased.
The ranger’s cheeks were tear-streaked. He opened his eyes and looked at Alias with a hint of embarrassment. “I’m … I’m sorry,” he said. “It makes me think of Kyre.” He dabbed his eyes hastily with his sleeve. “I’ll take first watch. You’d better get some sleep.”
Alias nodded wordlessly, and Breck moved away to another spot by the clearing’s edge.
All he could think about was Kyre, Alias realized in frustration. He wasn’t interested in Nameless. She punched her saddlebag angrily. No one cares about Nameless except me. She wrapped her cloak tightly around herself and laid her head down on the saddlebags. And no one cares about me, except Nameless.
Akabar and his fiend-spawn wife can go chasing after Moander, if they want, and Dragonbait can go with them, for all I care. But once I find Grypht and make him give me the finder’s stone, I’m going to search for my father.
Olive bandaged, by herself, the wound the beholder had inflicted upon her. She was still too angry with the bard to accept any help from him. She felt betrayed by his declaration that he intended to deal with Xaran. She had expected him to have too much self-respect to deal with such a creature. After informing him curtly that Flattery had looted the workshop and left behind a death trap for him, she’d stalked off to a corner to steam in silence.
Finder appeared not to notice the halfling’s anger. He began feverishly turning his workshop upside down, looking for something, anything, that he could use against the orcs. He’d been unable to get the other door leading out of the workshop to open, so now their only way out lay beyond the orcs. Unfortunately, Finder’s search bore precious few results. Flattery had either known or discovered every last hiding place his maker had, for he had taken everything but Finder’s musical instruments. Those he had tossed carelessly in a corner and apparently fireballed them. Only one instrument, a brass horn, survived the blast unscathed.