As he wandered from sentry post to sentry post, Kaerion observed the camp, wondering how long the expedition could continue to function under the strain of ever-present danger. Looking at the camp from the perimeter, it was evident that the men and women within its bounds had undergone a forced march for several days. Exhaustion had finally taken its toll, and Kaerion could see by the weary way his companions stumbled into their bedrolls or hung their heads that they had reached the end of their endurance. Living under the constant threat of attack brought its own attendant dangers to morale, as well as tempers. It was only a matter of time before either frayed past the point of restraint. Someone would do something foolish; mistakes, possibly life threatening ones, would be made. If their enemies were going to attack, Kaerion thought, they had better do it soon.
The breathtaking sounds of a harp drifted lightly through the thick night air, and Kaerion smiled as he recognized Majandra’s masterful playing. For a moment, his warrior’s instincts objected to the superfluous noise that could draw unwanted attention to their camp. But they already had unwanted attention. It was unlikely that their pursuers didn’t already know where they were.
A shift in the night air brought all of his senses to attention. Kaerion looked about quickly, searching for the source of this disturbance. His heart raced faster than a war-horse in a joust, and a feeling of dread crept up his spine. What in the Nine Hells could be unsettling him so?
And then he realized it.
It hadn’t been the night air that had changed. It was the music. As he listened to the opening strains of a song he hadn’t heard in over ten years, he felt as if a sharp arrow had imbedded itself deep in his chest. Someone had discovered his secret, and now the bard was revealing it to the entire expedition. Panic gripped him, as the words to the song rang out with accusation.
Betrayer!
Coward!
Child-killer!
Out of the darkness, he could see leering faces appear, demons and demon-spawn as familiar to him as the unrelenting press of hatred and grief over his own cowardly actions. The healing scabs that had formed over his wounds during the past few months were ripped open, and he felt soul-tearing pain as the memories of his abominable disgrace poured forth. Kaerion knew that he was unworthy of the friendships bestowed upon him, and he prayed for the first time in nearly a decade, that the god he betrayed would strike him dead.
Even the great moon cast its judgment upon him, for in its face he saw the features of an innocent boy smiling expectantly down on him—a boy he knew now lay dead, his desiccated corpse rotting in a demon-cursed dungeon.
Oblivious to his own pain, the song continued. Each word was like a glass-tipped whip lashed against the raw wounds of his spirit. Kaerion closed his eyes and threw his hands up to cover his ears in an attempt to shut out the music—but to no avail. When he opened his eyes again, he was surprised to see Majandra’s face staring up at him from her seat on the ground. His own legs had betrayed him, carrying him to the source of his pain, like a sacrifice.
As he met the equally surprised and horrified gaze of the bard, Kaerion felt his anger build into white-hot rage. Not content simply to excoriate the shattered dregs of his own soul, his anger now found an external focus—the cause of his current pain. Unable to stop himself, the warrior felt his arm pull steel from its scabbard and raise up the blade for a killing blow.
Silence filled the camp as Majandra’s fingers stopped playing. Her wide-eyed gaze never wavered from his, yet Kaerion felt as if he were on a precipice. One simple motion would send him tumbling, irrevocably, down.
The bard’s eyes softened, moving from fear to that familiar compassionate look that Kaerion had often longed to have aimed at him. Still, his rage drove him on. Sword held high, he battled for control of his own body.
At last, it was the bard herself who saved him. Slowly, she stood, seemingly oblivious to the death that hung above her, and placed one hand gently upon his face. “I am so very sorry, Kaerion,” she said in a measured tone soft enough to reach only his ears.
The half-elf’s voice was warm, its timbre a rich, dulcet, earthy tone that absorbed the heat of his rage, enfolding him in its compassionate embrace. Kaerion knew now, in the part of his mind still capable of rational thought, that the bard had never intended this to happen, had never played “Whitehart’s Hope” as a means of exposing his shame.
With a heaving shudder, he sheathed the naked blade. As if this motion released them all from a powerful spell, his companions moved forward. Kaerion was surprised to see Gerwyth stand abruptly and bar their way.
Kaerion looked back at Majandra, whose gentle fingers now traced the curve of his jaw. The half-elf appeared as stunned as he felt. With a slow swallow, she spoke again, “Kaerion, I—”
“No, Majandra,” he growled. “Not here.” And with that, he pulled her, far less gently than he should have, away from the center of the camp, back toward the shadows and relative privacy of the supply rafts.
Once there, the thousand things he had wanted to say swirled around in his head, getting in each others way. Dully, he gaped at the half-elf, who regarded him with a slight smile upon her face. His own mouth worked absently, opening and closing despite the silence that issued forth from it.
When at last someone spoke, it was Majandra. “So, it’s true,” she said in a gentle voice. “You are the Whitehart.”
Kaerion wanted to deny the accusation. Instead, he felt his shoulders slump under the weight of acceptance as he nodded.
“But how is that possible?” Majandra asked. “You were supposed to have died during the expedition that was sent to free Earl Holmer from Dorakaa. There’s even a song of lament about how you sacrificed yourself so that the others could escape with the earl.”
Kaerion bowed his head at the bard’s pronouncement. When he finally found his voice, it was tinged with bitterness. “There isn’t a day that has gone past since that cursed expedition when I don’t wish I was dead,” he said, “but there was no heroic sacrifice. You of all people should know the unreliability of bard’s tales.”
Majandra’s brow wrinkled in confusion.
“No,” he spoke again, shuddering as the memories ripped through him, “that expedition was doomed from the start. We were betrayed. Iuz knew we were coming and he set a trap. He let the others go and… and prepared a special place for me.”
Majandra shifted in her place and placed her hand in his. “But Kaerion, you beat Iuz. You escaped from his clutches, and now you’re alive.”
“You call this living?” Kaerion shouted, shrugging off the bard’s attempt at comfort. “At first, I thought Heironeous would save me, but then that demon-spawned bastard buried me in an oubliette. I sat there in the stinking darkness for so long I lost track of time as his minions whispered their foul wisdom into my ear. At one point, I can remember trying to pray, and the words of my prayer tasted like ash in my mouth. I wasn’t sure if Heironeous was listening, and after a while, I wasn’t sure if he was even real. All I could remember was fear, and darkness, and a soul-numbing chill that sucked every last bit of heat from my body. I was alone for the first time in my life.”
“You’re not alone anymore, Kaerion,” the bard said, moving closer. “You have Gerwyth, Bredeth, the others—and me.” Majandra’s voice became tremulous. “You have me.”
Despite himself, Kaerion barked with bitter laughter. “And why would they want me?” he asked. “Why would you want me? Don’t you know what I’ve done? Can’t you see what I am? After all this time traveling together, Majandra, are you truly so blind?” The words spilled out of him, ugly, hateful, and yet he could not stop them, wasn’t sure he wanted to stop them.