Darkwell - Douglas Niles [41]
The forefront of his mind roiled with thoughts of Tristan. How he had admired his king! He would have served him for life! He would gladly have sacrificed his own life to save that of his king, or the king's lady.
But even as this knowledge tormented him, the back of his mind counseled caution and alertness. Though the Calishite walked rapidly over rough ground in inky darkness, most of his steps fell in utter silence. His ears remained alert to any sign of warning from the dark, and his scimitar rested loosely in its sheath at his side. In an instant, the blade could become an extension of his arm, offering sudden death to any threat.
His dark figure picked its way carefully along the faint trail, avoiding cracked boulders and rotted, festering trunks. He had no destination in mind, but simply a desire to distance himself from Tristan. Daryth didn't know how long he paced or how far he had come, but eventually he halted, trying to decide what to do next. Should he spend the night here? His pride balked at the idea of returning to camp. Tristan had sent him away. So be it. But should he stay here in the darkness? He immediately discarded that idea and turned his footsteps back toward their darkened camp. He would claim his horse, and leave.
Angrily he slipped back along the trail. The route led mostly upward, though he hadn't been particularly aware of walking downhill when he had left the camp.
But he was not lost. Even in the blackest night, with a complete lack of landmarks, the Calishite would have been capable of making a very accurate guess as to his location. Now, though the night was dark, he remembered many landmarks along the trail to confirm his direction.
He moved as quickly as he could while still maintaining silence. Inevitably his haste drew an occasional scuffing sound as his boot slipped along the side of a rock, or a dull crack as he stepped on a dried twig. These slight sounds concerned him little, however, since all he had seen thus far told him that Myrloch Vale was now completely lifeless.
Soon he detected a break in the consuming darkness before him, and in a few more steps, he recognized the silvery glow that could only emanate from the Sword of Cymrych Hugh. Tristan, you fool! His thoughts raged. It's not enough that we camp within a few paces of the trail. Now you have to announce our location with that confounded glow!
And then, as he came closer, he heard voices, though he saw Pawldo and Tavish curled in their bedrolls. Tristan was speaking, and someone else replied.
Robyn! She was safe! Somehow she had found their camp. Daryth stole closer, suddenly tentative. Where had she come from? How would she treat the king whose betrayal had sent her away in the first place.
The Calishite reached the bole of a thick tree and peered carefully around it. Tristan's sword leaned against a rock, casting its illumination on the little clearing. The king stood beside it, an expression of anguish on his face. Daryth could not see Robyn, but he could hear the ice in her voice.
"Don't speak of love to me now, or faith. I saw enough of that at Caer Corwell!"
"You condemn me for a single mistake! It was the woman. She bewitched me! Any man can -"
"Any man? You are the High King of the Ffolk, Tristan, the man who would have been my husband! Don't talk to me of what any man would do!"
"But I love you! She meant nothing to me! I don't even know who she was, or how she -"
"Don't know?" Robyn was incredulous. "You seemed very well acquainted to me!"
Tristan groaned and turned from Robyn. "By the goddess, I'd give anything to take back that night!" The king stalked away, but then stopped and spoke more softly. "Still, we must work together, don't you see? You had no chance out here by yourself!"
"Perhaps. But I had no desire to be out here with you. However, you're right. Our best chance of success is to cooperate." Robyn's voice contained no hint of forgiveness.
"What are you planning to do now that we've reached the vale?" Tristan asked.
"I will tell you when we reach the well.