The elf seemed to sense his mood and lifted one corner of his mouth in a smile. “It is I who understand, Kaerion,” the elf said softly, then in a louder voice, “Come my loutish friend! Let’s see if you can move that hulking human frame of yours as fast as you move your mouth.” He pointed down the path, where somewhere in the distance the burbling call of a swift-moving stream promised relief from the unrelenting heat of the afternoon. “First one to the stream fetches dinner for the loser,” he said, and then swiftly disappeared down a bend in the path.
Kaerion cursed and dropped his armor in an undisciplined heap on the rock-strewn trail. A few moments later, both he and the elf were wrestling at the edge of the stream, each declaring the other defeated. The ranger wrapped one leg around Kaerion and pushed, hoping to trip the less-agile human, but the stubborn fighter held on and both plunged into the stream.
“No fair!” Kaerion sputtered. The shock of the still-cool stream water on his sun-warmed body nearly made him gasp again, but he contented himself with sending a cascade of water into the surprised elf’s face instead. The sight of the normally immaculate elf, hair drenched and ears dripping water, sent him into paroxysms of laughter that continued for quite some time.
“It appears,” Gerwyth finally said after he’d attempted to quiet his giggling friend with a stern glare for the third time, “that the sun and spring wind have healed more than just an illness.”
Sobered by his friends words, Kaerion stared thoughtfully at the elf. “Leave it be, Ger,” he said after a moment, but smiled to soften the remark. He really wasn’t ready to talk about it, but it was difficult to stay angry at an elf who resembled a dried grape. His laughter soon returned, and with it, another round of splashing. Bush and tree alike were soon soaked as the combatants continued their heroic combat.
“So, I see now why Phathas insisted that we hire you two as our guides and guardians,” a voice broke through the sounds of battle. “We’ve nothing to fear with both of your prodigious talents to protect us.”
Kaerion stopped his attack and turned to stare in horror at the source of the voice. Majandra leaned indolently against a tree, arms crossed, one brow arched high. He opened his mouth to say something—anything—and nearly choked as Gerwyth sent another wave of liquid streaming into his face.
“Does the fair lady wish to join me in my battle against this grave evil?” the elf asked as Kaerion sputtered and wheezed, trying to clear his throat and lungs of water. He could hear his friend’s slightly wistful tone and fought back a wave of annoyance. He was surprisingly relieved when the bard begged off, citing duty.
“And that goes for you two as well,” she said, still with a trace of humor in her voice. “Phathas wants you both to recheck the supplies we’ll be taking into the swamp. ‘No sense coming all this way just to go into the Vast Swamp unprepared,’” the bard mimicked the old mage’s didactic tone perfectly, and Kaerion found himself smiling despite the water running down his face.
“We’ll be there in a few moments, Majandra,” he said, finally overcoming the last effects of Gerwyth’s surprise attack.
“See that you do,” she said with a smile and turned to walk up the path toward the clearing. “I wouldn’t want to earn Phathas’ scolding at the moment. He’s positively impossible when he’s this close to the object of his labors.”
Kaerion cast a final look at the bard’s retreating back, only to be surprised when she quickly spun and returned his gaze, her smile even deeper. Shaking his head at his folly, he turned from the bard and finally stood up. Gerwyth had already moved to the stream bank and had begun to don his soft leather boots. By the time Kaerion had joined him, the ranger was already fully clothed; he shrugged once in apology and made as if to wait for his friend.
Kaerion waved his friend on. “Don’t worry about me, Ger,” he said. “I’ll follow shortly.”
The elf nodded and shot Kaerion another wicked smile. “Just see that you don’t tarry too long. I don’t fancy having to root through those stifling wagons all afternoon by myself.”
Kaerion laughed and pushed Gerwyth playfully toward the path. “I’ll be there soon enough,” he said. “Besides, you’ll need someone to help you count past ten.”
The elf chuckled and headed up the path, leaving Kaerion alone. The fighter stood for a moment, inhaling the rich scents of the river valley. By the time he reached the place where he had thrown down his armor, the sun had nearly dried all of the stream water from his body, leaving his skin feeling tight and slightly itchy.
Bending down to scoop up his hastily discarded armor, he reflected on his friend’s words. Perhaps the friendships that he had formed and the peacefulness of the past several weeks had done what the last ten years couldn’t. As he had all but admitted to Gerwyth just a little while ago, he still grieved bitterly for what he’d done. And yet, he’d not even been tempted to drown his sorrows in cheap wine since his illness. He felt those old wounds clearly, but it was as if they were not quite so raw and open.
Most surprising of all, Kaerion had even caught himself unwrapping Galadorn from its ragged hiding place and staring at it—willing it to demonstrate some sign of life, anything that would help him explain what had happened across the Nyrondese grasslands. The ancient blade represented everything he had lost, yet lately, he’d found himself absently tracing the hilt with his finger, eager to feel its great weight in his hands.
When Kaerion finally reached the camp, his mind was caught in bemused thought. He looked at the faces that greeted him and saw friendship, good humor, and even respect—something he hadn’t ever dreamed of seeing again. Perhaps Gerwyth was right. Perhaps it was time for him to face his grief once and for all. The elf had proven a true friend and accepted him for all of his faults. Maybe his new companions would do the same. He walked toward the center of camp feeling more at peace than he had in a very long time—
Only to be brought up short by Vaxor’s intense scowl. The Heironean priest had emerged from one of the caravan wagons and now fixed Kaerion with a furrowed gaze. His deeply lined face and set jaw reminded the fighter of the statue of Heironeous meting out justice in the High Temple at Critwall. In the grizzled cleric’s eyes, he could see condemnation and judgment—anger at his impudence to try and hold a place in this company for which he wasn’t worthy.
Kaerion shuddered beneath that gaze as if the coldest winter wind had swept through the clearing, and in one moment, he knew that all of his hopes and imaginings were just that. He nearly stumbled as the familiar, cold hands of despair clutched around his heart. Muscles strained from exertion and immersion in cold water sent aches all throughout his body.
Hastily averting his gaze, he threw on an old shirt, tucking it into his breeches as surely as if it were the finest of armors. He had been a fool to think he could be forgiven. A damned fool.
He would not make that mistake again.
14
Kaerion rubbed the thick beads of sweat from his face and stared at the broad expanse of the swamp that lay before him. Thick sheets of sawgrass carpeted the moist ground, and hummocks of pine and cypress erupted from the dense foliage that sucked greedily of the wetlands dank waters. Occasionally, he caught sight of the brightly colored leaves of the manga trees that were so prevalent in parts of the Tilvanot Peninsula. A ripple of movement drew his eye, and he found himself squinting against the angry glare of the sun as it reflected off the surface of a brackish pool.
Nothing.
A brooding silence lay over the swamp, pierced by the harsh shrill of a distant bird. The air hung thick and fetid, like an oily blanket he couldn’t cast off. Somewhere in the dark heart of this terrible place lay the ancient tomb of one of the worlds most infamous wizards. Despite heat that almost seared the breath from his lungs, Kaerion shuddered. Sunndi’s fertile river valley had been peaceful, almost pastoral in its spring splendor. He’d enjoyed the caravan’s slow but steady progression across its verdant length, but this—he almost made a sign against evil—this was something else indeed.