“Of course I have,” he said, perhaps a bit too sharply. “I’ve just never seen a daughter of one of the noblest houses in Nyrond drink out of anything that wasn’t made of gold.”
If Majandra took any offense at his statement, she didn’t show it. Rather, the half-elf cracked a thoroughly enchanting and all-too-knowing smile. “Well, now,” she said, her eyes flashing with mischief, “it seems that you have forgotten the fact that you and I have already shared a drink, after a fashion.”
Kaerion stiffened at the mention of his disastrous first evening in Rel Mord, but relaxed when the bard rolled her eyes and laughed in obvious good nature. He was beginning to enjoy this woman’s mercurial wit, even when its rapier-sharp point was focused on him. Perhaps, he thought, this journey wouldn’t be too dull.
Majandra handed back the skin of wine, and the two stood in companionable silence, listening to the sound of the wind as it whistled across the grassland. In the distance, he could see that the caravan line had stopped for the final break of the day. After this, the wagons would push on until dusk, when they would finally make camp for the night.
“I actually came here to thank you for helping us the other night,” Majandra spoke at last, breaking the silence. “I know you think our mission is a foolish one, but that didn’t stop you from risking your life to save Phathas and the rest of us. Without you and Gerwyth, I doubt we could have overcome our attackers.”
“You have no need to thank me,” Kaerion mumbled. And that was the truth. Thinking back on the events of that evening, he recalled springing out of sleep and into battle. The rest had simply been instinct. It wasn’t until they had regrouped in the ruins of the inn that Kaerion had realized exactly what had happened.
“And I don’t think that your plans, all of this—” he continued, indicating the wagons in the distance with a wave of his hand—“are foolish at all. I tried to tell you that the other evening, but I guess I was a bit too deep in my cups.”
He smiled ruefully and took another swallow of wine. “All of you have a tremendous amount of love for your country—and a tremendous amount of faith that the tightness of what you’re doing will see you through.”
“Is that so terrible a thing?” Majandra asked.
“No, I suppose not,” Kaerion replied after a long moment. He moved closer to the half-elf, catching her arm gently with his free hand. “But things don’t often work out the way we plan. Good doesn’t always triumph over evil. And sometimes, the paths that seem the clearest are the ones that cause us the most pain.”
This last came out in an uneven voice as Kaerion struggled to hide his grief—and failed. He released the bard’s arm and abruptly turned his attention to his mount, checking saddle knots and stirrups with studious concentration.
The silence stretched out again, this time full of tension. Majandra moved to the other side of the stallion’s head and gently rubbed the space between its eyes. “Why did you not seek healing after the attack?” she asked, suddenly changing the topic.
Kaerion continued with his ministrations, trying to find the right words. Despite his earlier comments, he did recall sharing a drink with Majandra. He’d almost confessed his guilt to her right there in the middle of the tavern, but fate had intervened. He had another chance now, if only he could figure out how to start. But try as he might, the words didn’t come.
“I suppose I wanted to save the god’s healing for those who truly needed it,” he said after a moment, immediately cursing himself for his cowardice. He’d refused Vaxor’s offer because he had been afraid of what the cleric would discover. Instead, he’d recovered his backpack and quaffed a healing potion while the others were deliberating their next move at the University.
He saw by the look on her face that she didn’t quite believe him. The bard opened her mouth to speak again, but he quickly interrupted her, not liking the direction the conversation was likely to take them.
“I appreciate your thanks, Majandra,” he said as he tightened the stallions saddle straps with a quick tug, “but as I said, it’s not necessary. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need to check in with Gerwyth.”
With that, he mounted his horse and urged it forward with a flick of the reins, kicking up a spray of ice and snow.
Stiff-backed and angry, Majandra watched in stunned silence as Kaerion rode away. When his cantering form was no more than a distant blur, she let out a string of curses that would have shocked any elf that overheard. She had been so very close to drawing the reserved fighter out from behind the wall he had built up to keep most everyone away. She was sure of it. One wrong question, however, had sent him back behind his brusque defenses.
Not that she wasn’t truly grateful for his aid the other evening. Kaerion’s courage, skill with a blade, and poise under deadly attack had turned the tide of battle in the Platinum Shield. She was convinced more than ever that Phathas had made the correct choice when he called upon an old friendship in his time of need. Their group would need the skills of Gerwyth and his moody companion if they were to succeed. And so much depended upon their success, she thought, shivering in the chill afternoon air.
Majandra continued to stare out in the direction Kaerion had headed, pulling at her lower lip thoughtfully. What was it that drove this embittered man, that forced him to keep the world and everyone in it at a distance? She’d watched him closely these past two weeks, hoping for some due. One thing was certain: something must have happened during the battle at the inn, something between he and Vaxor. It wasn’t just that Kaerion had quietly removed himself from the area when the Heironean priest was offering the healing of his god. The two men hadn’t exchanged more than a few words since that night, and Majandra could feel the tension growing.
Whatever the issue was, she was sure that it was tied up in some way to Kaerion’s impassioned comments about the “clear path.” Something had occurred in this man’s past, something truly tragic, and despite his best attempts, it occasionally broke through the mask he wore. The depth of his pain had surprised her today, but even more disturbing had been the strength of her need to understand him.
What had begun as an instinctive desire to uncover what promised to be an intriguing tale had grown into something much more. Thinking about it, Majandra nearly laughed out loud at the irony. She, a bard and master of many fables, legends, and sagas, felt trapped in a story not of her own making. The truth of the matter was, she finally admitted to the rolling plains and angry gray clouds of the grasslands, Majandra Damar, bastard daughter of one of the noblest houses in the kingdom, was falling in love.
It wasn’t until her mare gave a whuffle of displeasure that Majandra noticed the wet snow and icy rain, which had begun to fall once again.
The caravan continued through the grasslands for several more days, followed by the blustering wind and freezing rain of the storm. Despite well-built fires protected from the dousing snow and rain by a judicious use of Phathas’ magic, warmth eluded Kaerion. The days rolled by in miserable array, each one more uncomfortable than the last. Even though there were only a few weeks until Readying and the spring thaw, winter still held a tight grip upon the land, unwilling to yield its dominion. After the fourth consecutive afternoon of sleet and hail, Kaerion found himself looking forward to the oppressive heat of the Vast Swamp.
He wasn’t the only one affected by the continually dreary conditions. Spirits had dampened considerably since the expedition had left Rel Mord. The nights were spent in uncharacteristic silence around the fires, with many of the group’s members huddled together for warmth. Even the caravan drovers and guards, whose curses and world-weary comments were usually delivered with professional detachment, had begun complaining in earnest; tempers were ready to snap.