Brindani staggered out into the light, wild-eyed and running through the gray. The foothills were just ahead, and he quickened his stride at the sight of them, desperate to reach them, to climb them, and to find the place of the song and dreams. He felt as though he were falling with each step, tumbling toward an end he knew deep down he should fear, and yet he could not resist the summons in his blood. Cool wind blew across his fevered skin like a breath of winter. The sweat on his brow felt like ice, and he ran faster.
He was dimly aware of the poisonous ache in his limbs. Though Chevat’s potion had done much to ease the pain, it left him drained and nauseous. He stumbled against the incline of the foothills, falling to his hands and knees in blackened soil that smelled of char. He craned his neck to the top of the rocky foothills above, grinning weakly as he stood, so close to the promise of the song, a promise of peace. His eyes widened as he panicked for a moment, looking around until he saw Ghaelya climbing the hill behind him. He watched her pass with a dazed expression, letting relief calm his anxiety.
“All will be well,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on the genasi. “All will be well.”
He tried to stand and felt a twisting pang in his stomach. He faltered, confused and trying to catch his breath when the pang returned more forcefully, stabbing his insides with pure agony. A dry scream scratched its way through his throat as he doubled over, rolling in the ash. He felt rough hands grab his arms and haul him up, and tried to keep his feet moving as he was dragged up the hill backward. Rolling thunder deafened him and hid his feeble cries in crashing waves that shook the air. Though his eyes were closed, he could see the Lightning Tide return in bright flashes of red as it scoured the Lash.
His body curled in on itself as pain needled hungrily through his gut. It was not the gentle pain of the song; it did not bring him dreams or enhanced senses and it did not sink through his skin or bear the sweet scent of the red flower that Sefir had fed him. The pain was more familiar, almost forgotten, and it seemed it had returned with a vengeance. As the thunder died, following the Tide on its route around the Lash, he heard the tired grunts and cursing of Vaasurri and Uthalion, heard Vaasurri muttering as they pulled him to safety.
“Silkroot,” the killoren said derisively.
“No…” Brindani whispered, gasping for air and-fighting against the hands that held him. He’d left the silkroot behind him, not having needed or wanted the drug since finding the song and tasting the red flower. But his body was betraying his wishes, filling him with a base hunger that he loathed. He fought harder and found his voice, roaring in defiance of his own addiction, “No!”
He kicked against the ground hard, and he was released in a volley of shocked curses. Hitting the ground he turned and leaped forward, climbing as fast as he could manage, armnincr his hands on the rocks, feverishlv milliner himself higher and higher. All the while he felt the memory of the summoning song fade a little from his mind, felt his blood grow cold, and wanted to weep. The taste of blood filled his mouth; he huffed it from between his lips to spatter little red droplets on the gray stone as he climbed and scrambled for the top of the foothills.
He blocked out all but the top of the tall slope, enduring the pulsing pain through his abdomen. He listened for the song, but it did not come to him. He wanted to scream, to demand that it return and banish the agonizing remnant of the pathetic man that had wandered Aglarond in a drug-filled haze. Briefly, he considered how high he had climbed, contemplated the long fall over rocks, bits of half-buried walls, and the rotted out hulls of ancient fishing vessels.
“Just one slip,” he whispered, the thought coming through his pain in a rare moment of clarity. The song was missing, the grips of the silkroot were fading, and his more substantial wounds had begun to ache, leaving him for several breaths in between desire and necessity, his own man. “One slip…”
His head began to swim, and he felt faint. Grasping at another handhold, he tried to lift his suddenly wavering legs. His field of vision narrowed, overtaken by a tunnel of smoky black as his eyelids fluttered. His breath came quick and shallow. The scent of blood surrounded him, his wounds seeping through bandages that felt too tight, itching his skin abrasively. One hand slipped on the rough wood of an old fencepost, and he lurched backward, his eyes rolling in his head.
“Brindani!”
He heard his name but could not place the voice. The ground fell away, and a sickening freefall took him in an airy embrace. In the time between falling, bouncing off a smooth rock, and feeling sets of hands grasp his arms and legs, he heard shocked voices cry out in startling detail.
He felt the rough pattern of swirling fingerprints scrape across his skin. His nose was overcome by powerful scents of blood and sweat as he was lowered to the ground. Though a throbbing, needling pain remained in his gut, another, smaller pain began to spread over his skin and sink into his flesh. Again, he wanted to weep.
“It didn’t leave me…” he rasped quietly, grabbing at an arm that supported his head. Though the touch of the song was little more than a flicker, unable to totally banish the grips of his old addiction, it was enough to give him a warped sense of hope. The two painful compulsions warred over his spirit and threatened his sanity. “It didn’t leave me… All will be well…tomorrow I..”
“All will be well,” a voice like Uthalion’s answered, though a coldness in the human’s tone was somewhat alarming as Brindani slipped into the velvety black of slithering dreams and distant singing.
On a wide ledge just over halfway up the long, rocky incline, a small campfire burned with a pale brightness next to the flashing plains of the Lash. Uthalion kept his back to the Lightning Tide, his eyes still burning from his last glance at the gray plains. The sun would set soon, and at length they had decided to rest before pressing on, preferring to enter Tohrepur by day instead of night. And, Uthalion had reasoned reluctantly, they shouldn’t leave Brindani behind unprotected.
Vaasurri had been the only one to agree out loud, though Uthalion suspected the killoren’s reasons had less to do with the unconscious half-elf and more with the mysterious ruins. Vaasurri hadn’t said as much, but their proximity to Tohrepur seemed to-be having an effect on him as well. His hflit* InaA darlrartaIf anrl hie suae haturooTi amavoln1 green and shadowy gray, a sign of something unnatural, beyond even the experience of the sensitive fey.
Uthalion stared up the slope, tracing the edge with his eyes and pointedly ignoring the urge to keep climbing. He questioned his own motives and desires as he suppressed the impulses that sought to overcome his good sense. Absently, he twirled the silver ring on his finger, pulling it on and off with his thumb, an old habit of his that Maryna used to tease him over, saying that if he lost her ring she’d find another man who could hold on to it better. His breath caught in his throat at the memory, and he waited as the sudden emotion rose and fell in his chest, exhaling slowly as it passed. He wondered if his family truly had been taken to the ruins, not as sure as he’d been that morning, the strong certainty of his dream no longer as strong. But still, the possibility weighed on his mind.
“Almost there,” he said under his breath and recalled why the words seemed so familiar. “Leave a light in the. window. I’m almost there.”
Over and over, through the Lash, the Wash, and the rising lands of the Spur, he had uttered the phrase as he’d led his men out of Tohrepur six years before, all the while focused on his family. Maryna had been waiting for him with Cienna in her arms, just as he’d imagined, ever since their argument over soldiering and gold. But his experiences had been there too, like a hulking shadow in the corner of their little cottage, casting a pall over their lives. He’d come home a different man, a different husband and father than when he’d left, and Maryna hadn’t known how to deal with him.