Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [21]
"One day to reach the bottom of the vale," Taen replied, recalling Borovazk's estimation as they had set out upon the trail, "and then half a day's walk to the Red Tree."
Roberc nodded and drew a long draught from his waterskin. When he had finished, he lifted it up, offering it to Taen.
"Do you know what it is she is seeking?" the halfling asked.
The half-elf reached out and grabbed the waterskin, shooting Roberc a thankful look. He took a swig, letting the cool, clear water swish around his dry mouth before swallowing.
"No," he replied after taking another drink, "but I doubt that she does either." He handed the skin back. "Such is the will of the gods, I suppose."
Roberc snorted. "The gods-" he began and looked around, as if seeking something, but never finished his statement.
Which was just as well, as far as Taen was concerned. He'd grown used to the fighter's blasphemous speech and seeming indifference to the various faiths of Faerun.
Even so, the halfling's contempt for piety and the ways of the gods sometimes made him nervous. Taen didn't know what lay behind the fighter's attitude, despite years of adventuring together and countless nights around a fire, with only the wind and their voices to keep them company. The halfling didn't speak much about his past, about his life before he took up adventurering-and he certainly never spoke of the scarred burn near his mouth. Sometimes he would talk about an old battle or tell a story of an evening's diversion in a tavern, otherwise Roberc was a generally quiet, if dour, companion.
A mystery.
When Taen thought about it during quiet moments, it made sense. Marissa, Roberc, and he-all three of them-carried burdens hidden from the world. Their scars ran deeper than flesh, and so did their friendship. They had found each other, these individuals who, separated, would each likely fall prey to despair or the dangers of the world. Together, they offered comfort, hope, and strength, yet their burdens existed, lightened by the sharing, but not healed.
Roberc remained a mystery.
Normally, Taen would let such a mystery lie, for he often kept his own thoughts private and did not relish baring his wounds for all to see, but there was something about the vale-whether it was the ever-present newness of spring, or the feeling of walking in a fog-shrouded dream, Taen couldn't be sure-that raised his curiosity. He found himself turning back to the halfling, searching for the right words.
"What about the gods?" he asked finally after Roberc had caught him staring for the third time. "Do you believe in them?"
Roberc looked up at Taen, and the half-elf caught a glimpse, just for one moment, of fire behind the halfling's dead gray eyes.
"Of course I believe in them," the fighter answered after a moment. "You'd have to be a half-wit to deny their existence. The gods"-he snorted this time as he said the word-"they exist just like stone, wind, snow, and fire, but they are no gods of mine. A man may just as easily dig out of an avalanche with a dirk as pry himself out from under the finger of the gods once he's put himself there. No thank you.
"You want to know what I believe in?" Roberc asked, grabbing Taen's hand and stopping on the trail. "I believe in my sword. I believe in courage. I believe that a man's life is a candle held out in defiance of the darkness, and it burns, as all things burn, for as long as there is wax, wick, and hope. I believe that in the end, darkness comes for us all-even the gods.
"Life," Roberc whispered, "is in the burning. That's what I believe."
Taen stared at his companion, held still as much by the passion in his voice as by the fierce grip on his arm. What of friendship? He would have asked this of the halfling, but just then Borovazk called for a halt, and Roberc released his grip and went forward to help set up their camp.
CHAPTER 7
The Year of Wild Magic
(1372 DR)
Marissa dismounted and knelt before the stream.
Within the sound of its burbling water she heard the voice of the spirit, the telthor as Borovazk