The Legend of Asahiel: Book 03 - The Divine Talisman (65 page)

“I heard word of his coming. It seemed…I thought I might…” She hesitated, then shook her head. “Our paths did not cross. Whispers now are that he left during the night, to return to where the Illysp were first unleashed.”

“I swore to destroy him, Marisha. Back when we led the refugees from Atharvan, I swore to see him punished for the harm he has caused. Seeing him again…” He paused, seeking the right words to explain. “I can’t rid my mind of the image of him atop Killangrathor. I can’t convince myself that he won’t turn on us again—willfully or otherwise. I mean to make sure he either succeeds or perishes.”

He waited for her expression of dismay. He waited for her to castigate him for even thinking of such a betrayal, let alone admitting it aloud. Instead, she held herself emotionless, arms crossed, the sun rising at her back.

Finally, she said, “And you mean to do this alone?”

“We both know how precious every sword is here.”

“Any road these days is a perilous one. A man cannot watch his own back at all times and still expect to cover ground.”

Perhaps she was right. He could take it up with Troy when advising the high commander of his departure. A single scout or two, perhaps, might not be missed—not with Thelin continuing to send reserves north as needed.

“I’ll go and gather my things,” Marisha said.

Allion felt his jaw drop, though his heart gave another leap in its cage.

“Marisha—”

“Save your breath, Allion. This is nothing to do with us. I’ve been a part of this misadventure almost from the beginning, and I would not miss the endgame. Knowing Torin, he’ll require encouragement every step of the way. And if he should falter…well, we’ll do what we must.”

The hunter was speechless. Her conviction should not have surprised him. Ever since he’d known her, Marisha had been seeking her true purpose, hoping to affect the world in some larger way. She had thought her father might be able to show her, not realizing the man was dead before he ever found her. She had no one, now, to show her what her life might mean. If she was to find that path, she would have to forge it herself.

But that thought only stirred the painful bitterness that had overcome him before.

“What if I cannot keep pace?” he asked.

Marisha frowned. “What do you mean?”

A rising heat loosened his tongue, enabling him to abandon caution at
long last. “With your life, with your destiny. When I finally falter, will you simply leave me behind?”

His chest drummed while he awaited her response. It seemed an eternity before she knelt with him, hands reaching up to cup his face. “Fate has no more control over us than we allow,” she said, imprisoning his gaze. “And I’ll not permit mine to take you from me.”

There was nothing to do but kiss her, and so he did, feeling a passion within him swell. He could not know if she meant it. Today’s vows were often the source of tomorrow’s lies. But tomorrow would have to await its turn.

“How will we find him?” Marisha asked, when finally he let her break free.

“I’ve not lost my tracking skills entirely,” Allion said. “I think I can follow a day-old trail of some twenty dwarves. Besides, we know where he’s going.”

“Together, then.”

“Together,” he agreed, and kissed her again.

T
ORIN’S PARTY CROSSED THE SUMMIT
of the Aspandels around midmorning—at about the same time a choking cloud cover finally lost its grip on the sun. The warm rays, Torin decided, were a welcome relief, despite the sheen of sweat that covered him. A measure of added heat seemed a small price to pay for the sense of rejuvenation wrought by the sun’s boundless, life-giving radiance.

Indeed, as he crossed that eastward threshold and began his descent, the wall of peaks rising at his back helped to provide a sense of leaving the unimaginable chaos of recent weeks behind. An absurd notion, when those he meant to defend were still trapped behind that wall, and the road he traveled promised challenges every bit as harrowing. But with the vast bulk of the Illychar at his back and an ocean of sun-dappled forest flooding the lower horizon, he could almost bring himself to imagine that this world might have a future after all.

His Hrothgari escort set a cruel pace through the maze of draws and defiles and switchback mountain trails. Sometimes, it seemed to Torin that they went out of their way to choose the most rugged, hazardous, and trying stretches they could find. Even so, he refused to complain. U’uyen and his clansmen loped alongside without discernible effort. Annleia, though lacking the dwarves’ strength and the elves’ agility, never once gave voice to any discomfort she might feel. Aches and injuries notwithstanding, Torin was the only one among them in possession of a divine talisman that helped soothe such hurts while lending vigor and endurance. With it, he was determined to carry on
at least
as well as his companions.

He believed that he could have done so even without the Sword. He’d learned as an Illychar just how resilient a human body could be. Granted, an Illychar vessel did not need breath or blood to keep it moving—two fundamental limitations of the living. But even these limits, he’d come to understand, were as much mental as physical. So he continued to push himself as Thrakkon had taught him, beyond what he might expect his body could endure, forcing it to respond.

As the hours crawled by, he discovered yet another source of strength—one he could not have predicted. He was to be Annleia’s defender, but she somehow made him feel as if their roles were reversed. She kept to his side at all times, while the others in the company gave the pair of them a comfortable berth. On open ground, their escorts surrounded them in a wide, defensive circle. When forced into single file by narrow tracks and trails, the group
separated to guard them fore and aft. Even U’uyen and his Powaii chose at most times to settle back and watch them from afar.

Within this halo of privacy, he could not seem to shake free of Annleia’s attentions. She questioned him constantly, asking him for details about his former trek to Thrak-Symbos, as well as countless other, less significant things. She asked him about his childhood, about his life in Diln. She asked him who he had dreamed of becoming, long before events and choices had come together to shape him. She asked him about foods and melodies and merriments, wanting to know which had been his favorite, back when there had still been meaning in such simple delights.

In many ways, she reminded him of Saena, the servant of Lord Lorre who had plied him with all manner of trivialities during their ill-fated search for the overlord’s daughter. Annleia’s tone was not as frivolous as Saena’s had been, and yet, one might never have known that she was speaking with the man who had butchered her people and condemned her own mother to a fate worse than death.

Torin himself could not forget it. Nor could he absolve himself so easily. All those horrid deeds had been perpetrated by
his
hand. Malevolent spirit or no, he’d had a choice all along, the power to overrule its command—and been too late in doing so.

It was for this reason that he made himself answer her every question, when he would have much preferred to redirect the tide. The fascination he felt for her continued to grow with every word, every smile, every unnecessary gesture of undeserved kindness. Having set aside so much of the anguish with which he had wrestled upon first meeting her, having come to terms as best he could with who and what he had left behind, he found himself wanting to know more about
her
childhood,
her
family,
her
tastes and dreams and desires. But how could he ask about any of that without dredging up the horrific truth of what he had done to destroy it?

Left alone, he might have found it easy to slide into a distemper of remorse and self-pity. But his companion would not allow it. With her earnest, congenial nature, she made sure that he was never allowed to dwell long with such thoughts. Now and then, he wondered at the cause, if perhaps there was some secret motive behind her efforts. Most of the time, he simply appreciated her comforting presence, and tried to think back on when it had first become so.

They marched until dusk, then continued on through the eastern foothills by the light of their Hrothgari lanterns. The Kalmira Forest loomed large beneath them, its fringes crawling up the slopes as if to embrace their arrival. Having had little discussion with Crag or any others that day, Torin assumed that they meant to settle upon the forest floor before stopping for the night.

Instead, their Hrothgari scouts located a broad, flat shelf overlooking the treetops, with a sheer, cliffside backing and only a single approach from below—a splintered crevasse both steep and narrow. Highly defensible, the ridge was an obvious choice once Torin saw it. Even before the sentries had
been posted, he began thinking kindly of his chances for a few hours of honest sleep.

In setting camp, there was little for him to do that some pairing of Hrothgari hadn’t already seen to. Cookfires, snares, camouflage—all and more were under way, it seemed, before Torin could consider them.

“A relief it is to be traveling with those adept at doing so,” he commented to Vashen, looking to see where he might lend a hand. The warder general grunted and went about her business.

There were not even any pack animals to tend to. Each dwarf carried provisions enough for three, should the journey take a week. Mules would have been slow and cumbersome, and horses sore-pressed over such mountainous terrain.

“See to your rest,” Crag told him, “else you’ll be wishing ya had in the days ahead.”

After supper, during which he listened to the team leaders discuss their plan for the morrow’s trek, he found himself alone again with Annleia. Unbidden, she had taken a seat close beside him as he studied the Sword’s hilt, mesmerized by the play of light cast by a nearby watch fire, coupled with the endless swirl of flames within its ruby heartstones.

“It’s still a marvel to me,” he admitted, “every time I hold it. That I should be allowed to touch an item of such magnificence…it seems…blasphemous.”

“I find it hard to imagine the talisman in anyone else’s hands.”

It was the kind of statement she had been catching him off guard with all day: flattering, disarming, yet so out of place with their present circumstances that he couldn’t help but question her sincerity.

“You say that because I’m the only choice you’ve been given.”

“I’m saying that your retrieval of the Sword was certainly no accident. Even you must admit that. Besides,” she added, eyes agleam, “you wear it well. A handsome blade for one of the more handsome men I’ve seen in my travels.”

Torin scoffed to hide his embarrassment. “I fear the weapon’s brilliance has blinded you. Else you haven’t traveled nearly enough.”

Annleia pinched his arm. “I meant that as a compliment. You should be gracious enough to accept it as such.” She stood. “Sleep well, Torin.”

“Peaceful dreams, Annleia.”

T
HE NEXT MORNING,
T
ORIN DISCOVERED
quickly that something was wrong.

He had once again awakened early, though feeling better rested than at any time in recent memory. Determined to be of some use, he had set about mixing porridge over one of the resurrected cookfires. When it was warmed, he carried it over to where Annleia stirred beside Crag.

“Breakfast?” he asked her.

She glanced up, then quickly looked away. “Not for me.”

Torin’s smile slipped. “You’ll like it. I promise.”

“I’m not hungry, thank you.”

“I am,” Crag grunted, digging for a spoon.

Though she continued to evade him, Torin searched Annleia’s expression, his own a worry of confusion. He shifted to set the kettle down before Crag.

“Is there something else I can—”

But Annleia had already risen to her feet and was slipping away, eyes downcast.

“Is she feeling well?” Torin asked Crag.

“Why wouldn’t she be?”

Uncertain of the dwarf’s tone, Torin let the matter lie.

His concern persisted, however, as the company struck camp and made its way down from the foothills, to be swallowed up by the Kalmira Forest’s thickening canopy. Instead of trekking beside him, Annleia chose to march near the front of the column. If she spoke with anyone, it was with Crag, and then only sparingly. Her sullen behavior seemed a strange departure from that exhibited throughout the previous day. Torin found himself thinking back on their prior interactions, hoping he hadn’t wronged her in some new way or otherwise caused offense. If so, he could not think what it might have been.

After a time, he resolved not to worry about it. Since when had it troubled him to be left alone? In any case, his job was not to pry into her private thoughts, only to see that she remained safe.

Even in that regard, however, he soon began to feel rather useless. With all these protectors around, what did she truly need
him
for? Why did he not simply give her the Sword now and let her do as she must?

Such gnawing frustrations began to weigh heavy as the day lengthened and Annleia maintained her new distance. Perhaps it had nothing to do with him. Perhaps the forest had reminded her of her scattered people and her desire to return to them. Whatever the reason, he saw no need to disrespect her unspoken wishes, nor any right to demand an explanation.

So why did he continue to obsess over her?

From time to time, he did manage to distract himself with other reflections. Past, present, or future, none offered any solace. He could only wonder how Lorre and others were faring in their battle to contain the Illychar unleashed from Aefengaard…if Nevik and the northern peoples of this land had managed to set sail…if Troy and Corathel and the southern coalition would be able to hold long enough for him to ensure that Annleia repaired his mistake…if she would even be able to do so.

What had felt yesterday like a journey of fresh hope seemed now but a long, slow, painful reminder of all he had lost or allowed to be destroyed. Here he was, surrounded mostly by strangers, seeking to undo what had once seemed his greatest achievement. Even if his mission proved successful, what then? He no longer had a home. His friends and family were all dead or possessed or alienated. Even Allion, like a brother since childhood, had turned his back on him. How could anything Torin did now possibly account for all of that?

Forest shadows lengthened. Twilight descended. His troop continued on until midnight, then stopped finally beside a narrow tributary of the Emerald River. Annleia did not spare him a single word as camp was set and a quick meal consumed. Not once did Torin catch her even glancing in his direction.

Selecting an area on the opposite side of camp in which to unfurl his bedroll, Torin settled down and waited for sleep to come, doing his best to focus on more important matters.

H
E AWOKE IN SOUR SPIRITS,
cramped and groggy from a fitful slumber. Yesterday’s rancor still festered in the pit of his stomach. The day had not yet begun, and already he was anxious for it to end.

The Hrothgari were stirring. U’uyen crouched nearby with his trio of clansmen, engaged in quiet discussion. Torin cast about for Annleia, but didn’t see her. He didn’t see Crag, either, so he assumed they were together, that Annleia was safe.

With a quick word to one of the sentries, he headed out of camp, north along the river stream. The forest was shadowed and cold, the underbrush slick with dew and swimming in morning mist. But Torin felt in need of a crisp bath if he was to make it through this day.

The stream’s waters were even colder than he had expected, yet he gritted his teeth and immersed himself completely, scrubbing furiously at the film of dirt and sweat upon his skin. In the process, he seemed to discover half a dozen nicks and scars he hadn’t known he had. His flesh seemed to be covered with them.

He emerged wet and shivering, though not nearly as refreshed as he had hoped. The Sword’s warmth offered only meager comfort as he stood dripping, glaring disconsolately at his pile of soiled clothes. He wished now that he had taken the time to wash and hang them the night before.

He had only barely laced up his breeches when he heard Annleia’s voice.

“Here you are,” she said, hiking toward him through the foliage. Crag stumped along behind her. “You shouldn’t wander off alone.”

“Just heading back,” he assured her, somewhat gruffly.

Annleia continued forward. It was clear that she, too, had come from bathing. Her hair was still wet, her skin pink and fresh. She marched right up to him, smelling of some kind of wildflower, and rubbed some of the clinging water from the back of his close-cropped hair.

“Next time, bring a guard,” she scolded.

Torin regarded her suspiciously, reaching up to where she had touched him. He didn’t know how to respond. “Is there something wrong with the back of my head?” he asked finally, recalling that she had used that same gesture before.

“I’m still not accustomed to men with hair,” she admitted. “None of the elves I grew up with had any.”

“I can shave it clean, if that would please you.”

“Not at all,” she said, with another quick rub. This time, she added a smile. “I like it the way it is. Don’t you, Crag?”