Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [10]
"Marissa," he began then stopped, unable to continue.
The druid came closer, drawing her robe's cowled hood over her head as she did so. She reached out mud-covered fingers to touch his furrowed brow.
"Must you torment yourself now?" Marrisa asked. "Our journey draws to a close, and we may have need of your strength."
Taen nearly snorted.
Strength.
What strength is there in a broken blade?
"You know I cannot sleep when I am like this," he replied, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice-and failing.
"Then perhaps I can help…" she began.
"No, Marissa," Taen interrupted, "I would rather see the sunrise than lay ensorcelled beneath a spell. You know this too."
He winced slightly at the tone of his voice. After all of their years together, this still lay between them. The druid meant well, and he did not wish to hurt her any more, but anger, he knew from experience, rarely found its true target.
"Very well," she said from the depths of her cowl. Taen couldn't hear any blame or hurt in her calm tones-though he was sure it lay there, hidden.
She took a step back and turned as if to go.
"I wish only peace for you," she said before drifting into the shadows of the camp like a dream.
"I know," he replied to the empty air.
Murderers, he knew, rarely found peace.
CHAPTER 3
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
The day dawned bright and clear.
Taen rolled out from beneath his furs and squinted as the ground's crystalline snow cover caught and reflected the sunlight. He cupped a hand across his eyes and gazed out at the frozen landscape. All around them, wind-rippled drifts of snow gathered like the waves of a white ocean, trapped in a still moment of time. Ice covered the scattered pine and ash trees surrounding the camp, slowly yielding to the winter sun with chilly tears, and for the first time in nearly a tenday, he could make out the granite shoulders of the Running Rocks looming in the sky to the south. Snow covered the glacial peaks like frigid armor, running almost their entire length.
The half-elf let out a groggy curse at the bracing chill of the air, the too-bright daylight, and, most of all, the weariness that clung to his body and mind like a lodestone. Predictably, he'd tossed and turned throughout the night, unable to find much comfort in sleep's blessed oblivion. He had finally succumbed to exhaustion as the first rays of the sun bloomed pink in the morning sky, only to be awakened by Borovazk's rumbling bass voice.
"Is time for the waking, little friends!" he exclaimed. "Much ground to cover today."
Taen hated that voice-if not the man, he had to admit. The Rashemi ranger had guided them skillfully across the lands of his birth. That much the half-elf had expected. What he hadn't expected was the trust and friendship that was growing between them. As annoying as Borovazk's obvious delight in their own discomfiture was, the broad-shouldered human more than made up for it with his bravery, skill in battle, and willingness to shed his own blood in the course of protecting those who hired him. Taen knew that the others felt the same way, though he doubted they'd admit it, especially during mornings like this.
With a sigh, the half-elf began to gather up his bedroll and stow what little gear he had brought in his pack. He certainly wasn't going to give Borovazk an excuse to berate him further by being the last one ready to go.
When he had finished, Taen grabbed his pack and walked to the center of the small camp to check on the others. Roberc acknowledged his presence with a scowl and a nod of his head. The halfling stood before Cavan, adjusting the straps of the hound's makeshift saddle and drawing deeply from a long, tapered bone pipe. The pungent scent of pipeweed, carried by the crisp morning breeze, filled the half-elf's nostrils.
He looked for Marissa and found her sitting on a small outcropping of rock above the smoldering ash of their fire. The druid gazed deeply at a small yellow flower growing stubbornly in a small crack of the rock's surface. Taen didn't even bother