Vasen felt their eyes on him. A child had asked the question, but they were all thinking it. He turned, shadows leaking from his flesh.
Elora colored. “Noll!”
Her son spoke around a mouthful of cheese. “I didn’t mean to be rude, momma.”
Vasen produced a smile to reassure Noll. He’d heard the query often enough, and not always from children. With his dusky skin, long dark hair, and shining yellow eyes, he looked not unlike a Shadovar.
“I’m not,” he said, and left it at that. “Be at ease.”
“Then what are you?” asked Noll.
“Boy!” said the middle-aged man. “You go too far.”
“Forgive the boy,” another man said. “His mouth outruns his sense.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Vasen said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I’m a man, a servant of Amaunator and a follower of the light, the same as you.” He smiled at Noll and winked. “I’ve found that to be quite enough to keep me busy.”
Noll grinned in return, bits of food sticking to his teeth.
“Now gather your things, all of you,” Vasen said. “Time to move.”
Groans answered his proclamation, but the pilgrims did as he bade. As they gathered their things, Eldris walked to Vasen’s side and put a hand on his shoulder.
“They meant nothing by it, First Blade.”
“I know,” Vasen said.
Soon they set off. Sticking to the route he’d traveled many times in the past, they made rapid progress. Always Vasen kept his eyes to the sky, watching for any sign of the Shadovar. His lineage allowed him to see in the darkness as if it were noon, so everyone relied on him to spot danger before they could.
The rain picked up after a few hours, the water of the downpour as brown as a turd and carrying the faint whiff of decay. He considered calling a halt but the pilgrims seemed to be holding up, even the old. Vasen saw that Noll had his face to the sky, his mouth open to drink.
Before Vasen could speak, Orsin tapped the boy on the shoulder. “Don’t drink that or your pee will come out green.”
The boy grinned.
“He’s right,” Vasen said, seriousness in his tone. He admonished himself for not telling the pilgrims not to drink the rain.
The boy colored, lowered his head, and grinned sheepishly.
Orsin offered Noll his own waterskin and the boy drank deeply.
Vasen nodded gratitude at Orsin, and said to the pilgrims, “Drink only from your waterskins. Rain like this can make you sick.”
They murmured acquiescence. Elora cuffed Noll in the back of his head. Orsin fell in beside Vasen.
“I should’ve told them before,” Vasen said, shaking his head at his oversight. “Sometimes I assume they know what I know.”
“No way to anticipate the boy would drink rain that smells like death.”
“He must have drank all his water at the first break,” Vasen said.
“Maybe,” Orsin said. “Or he’s just a boy drinking the rain because he’s bored and that’s as boys do.”
“He didn’t drink much,” Vasen said, hoping Noll wouldn’t get ill.
“He didn’t,” Orsin agreed. “And he’s young.”
The wet pasted the pilgrims’ cloak hoods and hair to their scalps, their robes and cloaks to their bodies. They trudged through muck that pulled at their feet, stumbling often. But despite the rain and the bleak sky, they smiled often at each other. Each carried a symbol of their faith blessed by the Oracle-a wooden sunburst and rose-and most held it in hand as they trekked, heads down, prayers on their lips. Despite the rain and the black churn of the Sembian sky, the pilgrims held Amauntator’s brightness in their spirit. Vasen found joy in their happiness, although he kept an eye on Noll. The boy seemed fine, if a little pale.
Byrne sat beside Vasen under a broadleaf tree while the pilgrims took another rest. As usual, Orsin sat apart from the rest of the pilgrims, with them, but not of them. The deva stared off into the rain with his peculiar eyes, maybe seeing things Vasen did not. Old lives, maybe.
Byrne drank from his waterskin, offered it to Vasen.
“Word of the abbey and the Oracle is spreading,” Byrne said, as Vasen drank. “The pilgrims speak of loose tongues in the Dales and beyond.”
“That’s always been a risk,” Vasen said. “But no one knows even the general location of the abbey except those of the faith. And none of them could find their way back without us to guide them.”
Byrne shook his head. “Still, too many know of us. The Oracle’s on every tongue. He’s sought by many. The war in the Dales is only making it worse.”
Vasen pushed his wet hair out of his eyes. “Aye. The times are dark, Byrne. People crave light.”
“Aye, that. But if loose tongues bring the Shadovar down on us while we have pilgrims,” Byrne said. “Then what light shall we cast?”
Vasen stood, offered Byrne a hand, and pulled him to his feet. “That’ll depend on how well we fight.”
“There are only four of us here, First Blade.”
“Five,” called Orsin.
Byrne raised his eyebrows in surprise. “The man’s ears are keen.” He raised the waterskin in a show of respect. “Five it is, then. I’m called Byrne.”
The deva stood, approached, and took Byrne’s hand. “Orsin. And even with five we will need to fight very well, indeed, should we encounter Shadovar.”
“Truth,” Byrne said.
Vasen shouldered on his pack. “Let’s hope we don’t have to fight at all. Time to-”
A deep growl from somewhere out in the darkness of the plain pulled their eyes around. Vasen drew his blade. The pilgrims stared at one another, wide-eyed. They huddled close. A few of them drew eating knives, little use in a combat. Eldris and Nald stationed themselves before the pilgrims. Vasen, Byrne, and Orsin drifted a few steps toward the sound, ears primed, weapons drawn, all of them knowing the horrors the plains of Sembia could vomit forth.
The sound did not recur. Vasen called his men to him.
“Appear calm and unafraid,” he said to them. “Eyes and ears sharp. And watch the boy, Noll. He drank more of the rain than I’d like. Let’s move.”
The group left the shelter of the pines and re-entered the stinking rain. All of the Dawnswords carried bared blades, and Vasen didn’t breathe easy until they had put a league under their feet.
During the trek, Noll began to cough. At first Vasen told himself it was merely the ague, but hope faded as the coughing grew worse. Soon the boy hacked like an old man with wetlung. Vasen had never seen disease root so fast.
Noll stumbled as he walked. His mother, Elora, tried to help him.
“Assist them,” Vasen ordered Eldris, and Eldris did, letting Noll lean on him as they walked.
“The rain has infected the boy,” Orsin said.
Vasen nodded. “I’m worried. Illness from the rain is usually days in the making.”
“Can he be helped?”
“Byrne,” Vasen called, and nodded at Noll.
Byrne hurried to the boy’s side and the group halted for a moment while the Dawnrider placed his holy symbol-a bronze sun-on Noll’s forehead and invoked the power of the Dawnfather. Byrne’s hands glowed with light, the holy symbol glowed, too, and Noll smiled and breathed easier. Byrne mussed his hair.
The reprieve lasted only a short while. Soon Noll was coughing again, worse than before.
“What’s wrong with him?” Elora called. While Eldris sought to calm her, Byrne came to Vasen’s side.
“The healing prayer did not rid him of the disease.”
“No,” Vasen said. Healing prayers could close wounds, even fix broken bones, but against disease they were useless. “If we can get out of this storm, I can see him healed.”
Thunder growled in answer, the spite of the Shadovar’s sky.
“I’ll find shelter, then,” Orsin said, and darted off into the darkness.
“Wait!” Vasen called, but the deva was already gone, one with the darkness and rain.
“What now?” Byrne asked.
Vasen eyed Noll. “We keep moving until we find shelter. Orsin will find us. He doesn’t seem to get lost.”