Darkvision - Bruce R. Cordell [13]
Kiril took a sip for the road and stowed the container. The vitriolic taste wasn't enough to deter her preparations, though, and she retrieved a well-handled skull from her shelf.
The skull was that of a child, delicate and elongated-an elf skull. Kiril kept it to remind herself of mortality, and as a remembrance of what stock should be put in ideology when reality intruded. It was incontrovertible evidence of the perils of wielding Angul. The peril, and the payment required-the cost of her own innocence. She would never forget.
A chime blared at the door. Startled, she nearly drew the Blade Cerulean, despite the fact that she recognized it. She fumbled the skull and it fell to the floor.
"Xet!" Kiril screamed. "You want to end up a pile of crushed sparkly dust? Surprise me one more time, I swear!"
The crystal dragonet chimed again and darted up the passage outside her door.
"Damned little shardling," Kiril cursed. She'd gone more than a few months without loosing Angul from his imprisoning sheath. She didn't want to start the trip by bringing out the sanctimonious blade. Angul was an unbending, saintly bastard in his steel incarnation-more so than he'd been in life, and far more powerful. Kiril swore again, but refrained from retrieving the nameless god from her hip. She'd blurred the edge enough for the moment. She could stand only so much unsteadiness and faded reality.
The elf warrior picked up the skull from the floor and looked at it closely. It had a few new cracks. Kiril growled and placed it back on the shelf. Reminders of mortality were not themselves immune to destruction. She gathered up her saddlebags and departed her chamber. The amber glow of the earthlamp sensed her absence, and after ten heartbeats, dimmed.
* * * * *
The sun warmed Kiril as she spiraled down the exposed staircase to meet Thormud, Xet, and a pile of bags at the Finger Defiant's base. The morning was well along, and the elf didn't have to worry about treacherous night winds blowing her off the side of the mesa.
By the time she reached Thormud, after first spying him from higher up, nothing had changed. The dwarf stood, eyes closed, holding the tip of his selenite rod to the ground.
"Daylight's burning, Thormud," Kiril said. "You can poke rocks later."
The dwarf's eyes opened, and he said, "The earth speaks, to those with the patience to hear it."
Kiril sighed and dropped her saddlebags on the pile. "I've heard that somewhere."
Thormud rubbed his chin. "The disturbance prohibits me from knowing exactly where or how far, or even the precise direction to go."
"But we're going to Durpar, right?"
"We are going southeast, yes. I think, although it is impossible to say for sure, all the way to Durpar. I must build up a picture of the topography from the echoes of the disturbance that reach me. A challenging task."
Kiril waved her hand at the technicalities. "Is it a task you're up to?"
"Yes, if left to it."
The dwarf was the soul of patience, Kiril knew all too well. He was…
"You made a joke!" Kiril exclaimed. "All the gods of Sildeyuir, I thank you I was here to witness it."
Thormud inclined his head a few degrees in agreement.
"All right. Think of me as one of your less-communicative stones," Kiril said. "I'll be over there, polishing my blade." The elf had no intention of drawing Angul. It didn't require sharpening or polishing-the Blade Cerulean was sufficient unto itself. Instead, she pulled a dirk out of her boot.
The hilt of the dagger was unblemished silver, and delicate green traceries graced the blade. The weapon was one of the few keepsakes of her home. She kept it for more than just its good elven steel, trusty in a fight-it was a reminder of her childhood in the enchanted Yuirwood. In truth, she used the dagger more often than her sword. Better to wield a minor piece of elven steel than a naked, bitter soul in the shape of a long sword.
She perched on one of Thormud's chests and wiped down the blade with kuevar oil. Not for the first time, she wondered about procuring another