The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (61 page)

Torin could not remove his gaze from Dyanne, his eyes drawn to the delicate strands of hair that flapped and swirled, tossed by woodland breezes. How could he admit to her the truth of his hesitation? How could he tell her that the only real reason for his protests was that he did not know how to say good-bye?

His chest tightened. His breathing quickened. He would tell her because he must. This was the moment he had long been waiting for—the moment in which he would confess all and beg for the honor of catering to her every need and desire. It had to be. For it might well be the last time he would ever see her.

“We’ll be seeing you again, won’t we?” she asked him, as if able to follow the torrent of his thoughts.

Her words raked his spine like a flash of lightning. The notion had not yet occurred to him. All along, he had assumed the only decision he might make was whether to leave her in the first place. In that regard, it seemed he had precious little choice. Was it possible that he might somehow, when this war was won, find his way back to her?

“I’d like that,” he managed, his voice hoarse.

After that, he could only gape at the cherished face before him, veins pulsing to the frantic drumming of his heart. Though he searched, there seemed no words to properly convey his sudden sense of devotion. He wanted so badly to express a deeper commitment, to promise her that yes, she would see him again, no matter what that required of him. But he feared if he were to say anything more, the dam would burst, and he would be unable to control the sudden flood.

“Should anyone ask,” Holly added, “I’ll tell them we had quite the adventure.” Torin turned to her, almost grateful for the interruption. “But it’s clear you no longer need us. Seems as good a time as any to thank us and be on your way.”

Torin swallowed the deeper feelings risen to his throat. “Thank you,” he said. “I’d never have made it without you.”

He bowed to the pair of them. When he came up, Dyanne was glancing at her kinmate with one of those knowing smirks. But when his eyes met hers, she flashed him a smile—that dazzling smile!—and nodded in return. “Good luck,” she offered. “We’ll look forward to your return, Torin of Alson.”

She gazed at him a moment longer, but he had nothing more to say. So the
Nymphs bade their farewells to Crag and Saena, offering their apologies to the dwarf, and asking if the girl had any messages to be delivered to her lord and ruler. Only that she would report back herself, Saena had replied bitterly, just as soon as she had seen Torin on his way.

Then they turned, the two from the Fenwood, starting up the trail. They walked with the same confident gait with which they had first strolled into Torin’s life, and did not look back. He stared after them, but the path took a sudden bend, and their forms were eclipsed all too swiftly by a shallow ridge.

Wait!
Torin shouted, but the word went unspoken, unheard, unknown, echoing only within his mind.

Where all he had left were memories.

“They’ll be fine,” he heard Crag say. “Come.”

Torin gulped, peering a moment longer down that empty trail. Then Saena tugged gently on his arm, and together they resumed their hike through the sun-filled wood.

A
LLION CLOSED HIS EYES
and let the warmth of the water seep in, doing his best to dismiss all of the pain and tension carried with him throughout his journey. He hadn’t bathed since setting forth from Atharvan nearly a fortnight ago—the latter half of which had been spent in slow, steady march alongside Chief General Corathel and the rest of the Second Division as it made its return. Though proud to have helped free the legion commander from the A’awari and turn the division homeward, he had done so at great cost—to himself and to others. Burdened for days by the weight of emotions too confusing and shameful to sort through, he was finding it difficult, even now, to grant them full release.

“More oil, milord?”

The hunter opened his eyes and looked to where one of his bath attendants—the king’s own—stood beside the ornate tub, a pitcher upraised.

“No, thank you,” he replied. The scent was strong enough as it was. “Some more petals, perhaps.”

The girl obliged him, setting aside the pitcher and fetching a basket of rose petals, which she sprinkled liberally atop the water’s surface. The other attendant stood behind him, arranging an assortment of rags and brushes. Except as a babe, Allion had never before been bathed by another, and he felt perfectly foolish now—especially with but a thin layer of oil and lye and petals to shield his nakedness. He had tried to refuse, of course, but a grateful Galdric had insisted, saying that it was the least the king owed him for returning to the Parthan people their army.

“That should do,” he said, when the coverage of petals was thick enough to conceal him from any wandering eyes.

The girl set down her basket and came round to where Allion leaned back against the wall of the tub. He tensed as she began to rub his shoulders.

“Do my hands offend, milord?”

“No, no,” Allion answered, having no desire to insult the girl or the king she served. “I’m not accustomed to such royal treatment, is all.”

“His Majesty tells us you are well deserving, milord. Just relax.”

Easily suggested, Allion thought. Not so easily done. For he was not so naive as to believe that the concerns troubling his heart would be washed away as readily as the dirt and grime that now clouded his bathwaters. What
he needed was some time to himself, an opportunity to sort through the many emotions now warring within. He had expected that once he returned here, to Atharvan, that he would finally be able to break away from Marisha, Darinor, and all others who would disturb and muddle his thoughts. Alas, it seemed he would have to wait a little while longer.

The hunter could not remember a time in which he had felt so conflicted. Duty and respect had long been the tenets by which he defined his life. Seldom had personal dreams and desires been in opposition to the expectations of his elders, and, when so, had been easy enough to put aside. Certainly, he had never wanted anything so badly that he would consider defying king and country—or worse, betraying the trust of his closest friend.

One kiss had changed all that.

It was this that gnawed at him more than anything else—more than his ongoing fears concerning the Illysp, and more than his lingering guilt over the death of Jaquith Wyevesces. He’d even been unable to take heart in a report relayed by King Galdric that Evhan, captain of the City Shield, was once again in charge of Krynwall’s home defenses, having escaped abduction by a gang of thieves within the city. No, Allion was much more concerned by what had happened between him and Marisha there in those southern jungles, and what it might mean—to all of them—in the weeks ahead.

He never should have allowed their relationship to progress as it had. He should have guarded his hidden feelings much more closely, for surely Marisha had sensed the truth of his heart and been lured accordingly. At the very least, he should never have returned her kiss, but should instead have made it clear right away that there could be nothing of that between them—not behind Torin’s back, and not while so much of greater import lay at stake.

But it was too late. He could not put a stop to what had already happened. And in truth, he wasn’t sure that he would even if it were within his power to do so. Riddled as he was with guilt, half his time was spent thinking not of how he might have avoided those brief moments in the jungle, but how he might continue them. The urgency of Marisha’s kiss had filled him with a euphoria he had never before imagined. At times, he could think of nothing he wouldn’t do to recapture that feeling and make it last forever.

Regardless, with everything else going on around him, this was a personal struggle he didn’t need.

“This is supposed to
ease
your tensions, not increase them.”

Recognizing the voice, Allion nearly jumped from the tub. As it was, he spun about, pulling away from the hands that gripped his shoulders, and sloshing water and rose petals onto the floor. He glanced toward the doorway as the king’s bath attendants slipped from view, then turned a horrified gaze upon the woman before him.

“Marisha, what are you doing here?”

“The same thing those girls were doing,” she responded, reaching again for his shoulders. “Why? Do you prefer them to me?”

Allion pushed himself beyond her reach, aghast at how quietly and effectively she had been able to dismiss the king’s servants and take their place.

“This is hardly proper,” he remarked, working to rearrange those petals that had been disturbed by his frantic movements.

“It might be too late to concern ourselves with propriety.”

Allion disagreed. They had been extremely careful during their northward march not to exhibit obvious displays of their newfound affection. Aside from Darinor, who had happened upon them, no one else, Allion believed, had cause to suspect that anything untoward had taken place between Alson’s queen-to-be and her sworn protector.

“The last thing I want is for Torin to hear about us from some rumormonger,” he said, watching her carefully.

“That’s
if
he even returns to us.”

Allion gave her a sour look.

“I wish him to, of course. I don’t mean otherwise. But how long must we be expected to wait?”

Once again, Allion wasn’t certain what to feel. On the one hand, he was thrilled by the suggestion that she viewed their kiss not as a mistake, but as the birth of something more between them. On the other hand…

“What about your father?” he asked.

“What about him?”

“I doubt he would be pleased to find you here.”

Marisha scowled. “My father walked freely from my life more than a dozen years ago. He hasn’t the right to tell me how—or with whom—I should live it.”

Allion gaped, both elated and terrified by the prospect her words conveyed.

“Nevertheless, I think you should send the girls back in before they—and I—have to explain to Galdric why they were dismissed.”

“A wise choice,” a thunderous voice echoed from the doorway.

Allion cringed, but forced his gaze to meet Darinor’s as the Entient strode forward.

Marisha, though frozen for a moment, turned bravely to confront him. “Father, I thought you in council.”

“The council proved brief,” Darinor grunted. “This Galdric, it seems, is a man of his word. General Corathel gave his voice in support of our plan, and the king accepted it.”

Our
plan, Allion echoed derisively. The one to unite all major military forces in a single region of Pentania in an effort to draw forth the Illysp hungering for the bodies of soldiers. The one that would leave the majority of the civilian populace relatively defenseless. As if anyone other than Darinor—including they who had accepted his proposed course—truly believed it to be a good idea.

“We’ll be departing soon, then?” Marisha asked.

Darinor’s brow furrowed sharply. “Not before I have a word with our good regent,” he said, turning his glare upon Allion.

“It’s my fault, Father, not his.”

“Go,” the Entient commanded her.

“You’ll not harm him,” she declared stubbornly.

The look he gave made no such promise, but she must have taken some reassurance, for she finally acquiesced, stepping quietly from the chamber.

For a long moment after, Allion soaked silently while Darinor continued to glower.

“You do not approve of us,” the hunter dared when the grim hush became unbearable.

“Is she not betrothed to your king?” the Entient asked.

“A man
you
sent away,” Allion reminded him, “on a mission from which she fears he may never return.”

“So you seek to comfort her in his stead.”

Allion sulked. He wasn’t sure whether he should defend himself, or take up a whip and have a hand in his own flogging.

“I wish for her to find happiness,” he said at last. “As her father, I should think you would want the same.”

“Happiness,” Darinor snorted. “And have you no concern for that of your friend?”

Allion’s gaze dipped helplessly to the waters beneath which he hid. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I only—”

“Spare me your excuses,” the Entient rumbled. “I care not how you ply your fickle human emotions. Nor she hers. For if she is to embrace her legacy, she will outlive both of you by centuries.”

Allion raised a confounded expression. “Then what
do
you care about?”

“I care about the potential for distraction and infighting at a time when we can ill afford either,” Darinor growled. “I care about losing focus and inviting further disaster to join us.”

The hunter met the other’s stare, but had no response.

“Try to remember that,” Darinor added, “as you take your rest in the coming days.”

“Rest? Are we not returning to Krynwall?”

“I intend to wait and march forth when the legion is ready. I will not risk leaving those here to change their minds while we are away.”

“How long?”

“That is for the army to determine. The sooner the better, obviously. In the meantime, whatever peace and solitude you might find is well deserved. Just bear in mind,” Darinor pressed, upon catching Allion’s look of surprise, “that your decisions, and those of my daughter, could have a far greater impact than either of you may have yet realized. If
she
cannot see that, I’m trusting
you
will.”

It made sense then, Allion thought, that the Entient should come to him. No doubt, Darinor would have this talk with his daughter as well—if he hadn’t already. But the Entient had likely learned by now that of the two, Marisha was the more bold and willful, while Allion…

The hunter exhaled slowly. Allion did as he was told, not as he wished.

Somehow, he managed to nod his understanding, hoping that Darinor
would not demand of him some form of ironclad guarantee. For if that were the case, he had none to give.

Thankfully, his simple acknowledgment was enough. Darinor considered him a moment longer, then turned for the exit. As soon as he had left, the king’s bath attendants reentered.

“Are you ready now, milord?”

Allion nodded absently, thinking of the prospect that his first kiss with Marisha might have been their last.

The attendants took up their rags and brushes. This time, the hunter offered no outward resistance—while, within, the war against his sense of duty raged on.

T
ORIN GAZED OUT UPON A WINDSWEPT SEA,
bereft of the joy and freedom that had so enraptured him when first he had felt the ocean’s caress. He stood not at the bow of the ship, but its stern, peering back at the forested bluffs marking Yawacor’s northern shoreline—all but hidden by the closing curtains of mist. Overhead, midday skies held off the threat of rain, much as he refused to let slip what he was feeling inside.

He had said his last good-byes a short time ago, bidding thanks and farewell to Saena and her uncle, Braegen, who had been kind enough to arrange passage for both Torin and Crag upon one of his merchant vessels. So delighted was the man by the surprise visit from his niece that he had shown no distaste whatsoever toward Torin or his dwarven companion, and, much like Captain Jorkin during Torin’s journey west, had bridled well his curiosity. He’d even gone so far as to push ahead the ship’s scheduled launch by more than a week, in order to send them home as quickly as possible.

It had all seemed to Torin rather sudden, and he was not necessarily pleased. As important as it was that he hurry back to his own lands, it felt now as though he’d been denied the opportunity for a proper farewell. It had taken Saena’s uncle less than two days to ready for their departure, and now, just like that, Yawacor was gone.

It hadn’t really struck him until the ship had lurched away from the docks, leaving him to wave back at Saena and to wonder at the curious intensity with which she had wished him a safe journey. He could still feel the warmth of her parting embrace, the way she had looked at him as if aware of his inner torment. Both awkward and reassuring, she’d behaved as though she knew and understood his secret thoughts. In that final moment, he had considered opening up to her, so great was his need to express himself to
someone
. Instead, he had simply thanked the woman for all that she had done, apologized for not having done more of the same, and wished her well.

Of all those he had met, she was the only one with whom he had shared a heartfelt good-bye. With so many of the others—Dynara and the Fenwa, Arn and Moss, General Chamaar and his wedge commanders—he had simply slipped on to new horizons, like a cloud with no one to observe its passing.

The separation that pained him most, of course, was Dyanne’s. In fact, he
suspected that it was the grief he felt at leaving her behind that caused him to feel so strongly about the land and its inhabitants. Each and every person he had encountered was a part of his experience here, and, by extension, a reminder of she who had come to mean so much to him. Even Lorre, a onetime adversary, seemed now but another with whom he had unfinished business, another to whom he must find a way to return.

“Still stewing about Lorre?” grumbled a voice from behind.