Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [39]
Including himself, he had had to admit. For how else could he have explained his own presence at the beginning of their journey. So he found himself struggling-not with the decision about whether to continue on with the druid, as that choice was taken from him the moment Marissa had opened her mouth to speak-but with the reality of what this journey could do to him.
"I know what I am asking of you," Marissa said when the two of them were finally alone.
"Do you?" was all he said, all he could say in the face of Marissa's need.
"Perhaps not," she said and touched his cheek with her cool hand. "Still, I am asking." Her eyes were twin pools of light. "I do not wish to do this thing without you, Taenaran, but I will if I have to."
Her voice was soft, like a summer breeze, and Taen found his own heart warming.
"You will not have to," he said finally and gently moved her hand from his face before walking into the shadow of the trees.
Lost in his thoughts, Taen was surprised when his spoon scraped the bottom of the crock of stew; he had finished his dinner without tasting any of it. The half-elf would have called out to the server for more food, but a loud crash drew his attention. Over in the corner, two of the berserkers were locked in a martial embrace. Even from his vantage point, Taen could see the knotted cords of muscles as both fighters strained against each other. Two tables had already fallen to the floor in the struggle, but the Rashemi patrons seemed to be taking it all in stride. Many had even gathered around the fighting berserkers, calling out encouragement to the combatants.
"I thought Borovazk said this place was restful and quiet," Marissa asked, staring at the fight with obvious interest. Taen recalled that very same thing, but he said nothing. He was just glad that something had finally broken through her reverie.
"As long as I can still sleep on a soft straw mattress," Roberc opined with a lazy puff from his pipe, "then I don't care if the spirits of the dead themselves start wailing from the rafters all night long."
"Little friends," Taen heard Borovazk's voice from behind him, cutting over the din of the taproom, "Borovazk speak truth. Green Chapel is nice, quiet place…" The ranger paused. "Normally."
Taen turned around. Unlike the rest of the group's members, Borovazk had forgone any change of clothing. Once they had arrived at the inn, he had made straight for the back of the common area, content to sit by the bar and exchange news and swap outrageous stories, all the while consuming vast amounts of the bitter, frothy ale served by the barkeep. He returned with another Rashemi in tow, a wizened figure wearing a soiled leather apron.
"Then what happened to change the ambience, Borovazk?" she asked with a laugh as another table toppled beneath the frenzied wrestling match.
"Rumors," said the stranger standing next to their guide. He wore a frown that accentuated the deep wrinkles covering his face. "Rumors of midnight raids, slaughtered villages, and dark things creeping down from the High Country. The blood of Rashemen quickens at the thought of such events happening. The Iron Lord stirs in his citadel, whipping his warlords into a frenzy, and the whole land is abuzz with the possibility of war."
Taen listened and fought down a shudder at the old man's words. Unlike Borovazk, the stranger spoke common almost perfectly, without the heavy accent and tortured syntax that marred the ranger's speech. This made the man's statement somehow more menacing.
"I will say no more of this," he continued, "until you have spoken with the othlor."
Taen blanched as the stranger finished and noted that the others had similar reactions. If there truly were a traitor among the wychlaran, then it wouldn't do for too many people to know why they were around. The half-elf was about to stammer out a protest, denying the truth of the old