But it was Orsin. Orsin had pulled him around.
“You wander,” the deva said. “Are you unwell?”
“No. Yes. They showed me things, Orsin. Horrible things.”
Orsin’s pupilless eyes fixed on Vasen, the pale orbs strangely analogous to the mist. Worry lines in his brow creased the lines of ink on his flesh.
“I’ve seen nothing,” he said. “But I hear them. They whisper of Elgrin Fau, the City of Silver. They speak of your father. It was not so when I journeyed through the mist on my way to the temple. Then I heard only jabberings.”
“It’s never been so,” Vasen said, his thoughts clearing. “And what’s the City of Silver? And how could they know of my father?”
Orsin looked around as if he could decode an answer from the swirl of the mist, from the malformed faces staring out of the gray at them. “I don’t know. Maybe something has changed?”
Vasen held onto the deva like a lifeline. “Changed. Aye.”
Orsin patted Vasen on the shoulder. “We’ll speak more of this when we clear the mist.”
Orsin’s words moored Vasen, reminded him of his duty. He shook his head to clear it, called out. “Eldris? Byrne? Nald? Speak!”
One after another they called out, their voices not far from him.
“And the pilgrims?” Vasen called, his voice hollow in the mist.
“Accounted for,” answered Byrne.
“All is well,” Orsin said. “It was you we worried after. You spoke strangely and walked off.”
“And you followed? You could have been lost.”
Orsin pulled back, showed Vasen his quarterstaff, scribed with lines, his flesh, made into a map from the tattoos that covered him. He smiled. “I seldom lose my path, Vasen.”
Despite himself, Vasen smiled. “No, I suppose not. You have my thanks. Come on. Let’s get everyone clear of here.”
Rather than walking a few paces behind, Orsin walked beside Vasen, to his right, and Vasen welcomed his presence. The spirits receded to silence, as if they’d had their say, and the column had only to manage the fog and switchbacks as they journeyed through the pass.
“This is a maze,” Orsin said.
“A challenge to even those who seldom lose their path, not so?”
Orsin chuckled. “Very good.”
“The pass has kept the abbey safe for a century. When he was only a boy born dumb, the Oracle entered his first seeing trance and led the survivors of the Battle of Sakkors through the pass.”
“Sakkors,” Orsin said. “Where Kesson Rel fell.”
“Yes,” Vasen said, and shadows leaked from his skin.
A whisper went through the spirits of the mist.
“He fell to your father and Drasek Riven and a Shadovar, Rivalen Tanthul,” Orsin said.
“He fell, too, to the light of the servants of Amaunator. Among them my adoptive father’s sire, Regg, and Abelar Corrinthal, the Oracle’s father.”
“Shadow and light working as one,” Orsin said.
“Yes,” Vasen said, and eyed Orsin sidelong. The deva’s hand was over the holy symbol he wore under his tunic. Vasen continued, “And when the survivors reached the valley, the Oracle pronounced it the place where light would thrive in darkness. The abbey was built over the next decade and there it has stood since.”
“I hear your pride in the accomplishment.”
“The Order does Amaunator’s work here. Good work. I’m privileged to serve.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Orsin said. He walked in silence for a time, then said, “I’m pleased our paths crossed, Vasen.”
“I share the sentiment. Although our meeting appears to have been no accident.”
“No,” Orsin agreed. “No accident.”
They said nothing more as they led the pilgrims out of the pass. As the mist thinned and finally parted, the dark sky spit a heavier rain.
Chapter Six
Vasen led the pilgrims down toward the rocky foothills of the Thunder Peaks. He stopped them there. Beyond the hills stretched the Sembian plains, a vast expanse of whipgrass dotted with large and small stands of broadleaf trees and pines. Occasional elms and maples, the giants of the plains, loomed like protective parents over the smaller trees. The bleak Sembian sky merged into the dark of the plains at the horizon line, the one blurring into the other. All was darkness and rain.
Vasen scanned the sky for any sign of a Shadovar patrol. The floating city of Sakkors had not been seen so far north in a long while, but Vasen would take no chances with pilgrims in his charge. Now and again the Dawnswords had seen airborne Shadovar patrols, two or three soldiers mounted on the flying, scaled worms they called veserabs, but even those had grown uncommon. Vasen suspected the Shadovar had diverted the bulk of their forces toward Cormyr and the Dales. The Dawnswords scouted the area around the Thunder Peaks and knew a Sembian force was encamped on the plains south and west, blocking the passage between the southern Thunder Peaks and the sea. Probably to hold any forces from Cormyr that might otherwise try to aid the Dales, which had already endured months of attacks by Sembian forces.
“Hurry now,” he called to his men, the pilgrims. “We’re exposed in the foothills. We have to reach the plains as rapidly as possible.”
With the hale assisting the elderly or weak, the group moved quickly through the boulder-strewn hills. Vasen knew his mother had been found in the foothills, among a stand of pine, not far from the pass. Pines still dotted the hills, and each time he walked there, he felt connected to her. He wondered if the trees under which she’d been found still stood.
Soon the rocks and gravel surrendered to scrub and whipgrass. Vasen led the group to a stand of broadleaf trees he knew and they stood under it, fatigue in the eyes of the pilgrims.
“Rest a moment,” he said. “Eat. We move quickly from here. The less time we spend on the open plains, the less likely we are to be spotted. We’re three days from the Dales. Three days from the sun.” He forced a smile. “That’s not long, is it?”
“No,” some said.
“Not long,” said others.
The pilgrims pulled bread, cured mutton, and goat cheese from their packs. Orsin sat apart, cross-legged on his pack, eyes closed, hands on his knees. He seemed to be meditating or praying. Vasen, Nald, Eldris, and Byrne moved among the pilgrims as they ate, keeping spirits high.
“He’s a strange one, yes?” Byrne said softly to Vasen, nodding at Orsin.
“He is. Of course, many say that of me.”
To that, Byrne said nothing. Both of them knew it to be true.
“He’s an honorable man, I think,” Vasen said.
“He’s not of the faith, though,” Byrne said, and gave a harrumph.
“He’s of a faith,” Vasen said, and left Byrne to visit with the pilgrims, offering encouraging words and blessings to ease pain and warm spirits. Amaunator had gifted all of the Dawnswords with the ability to channel their faith into various miracles.
“How do you fare?” Vasen asked a heavyset woman of maybe forty winters. He thought her name was Elora. Her son sat beside her, a boy of perhaps ten. Vasen searched his memory for the boy’s name-Noll.
“As well as I might in this rain.”
“Do you need anything I can provide? You or Noll?”
“We’re fine.”
“Fine, goodsir,” said the boy, around a mouthful of cheese.
“You hale from the Dales?” Vasen asked, to make small talk.
A shadow passed over Elora’s face. “Archendale. Before the Sembian attack. Then Daggerdale.”
Vasen could see loss in her face. Judging from the fact that she and Noll traveled alone, he could guess what.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, sister,” Vasen said, and touched her lightly. “You need only ask.”
She recoiled slightly at his touch and he saw that his hand leaked shadows. He pretended not to notice her response, stood, and moved to walk away.
“Are you a. . Shadovar?” Noll blurted at his back.
The question silenced the other pilgrims.