Darkwell - Douglas Niles [56]
In a moment, she rose and looked at him with tear-filled eyes. Her gaze held no accusation, only a deep, aching sorrow. "I shall find a place to bury him," she said and walked into the woods.
Tristan nodded dumbly and watched her go. As Robyn disappeared between the trees, his eyes were drawn unwillingly back to the corpse. Angrily he tore his cloak from his shoulders and knelt beside Daryth, covering him with the garment. And then he wept.
"By all the gods, my friend, I know I failed you!" He spoke softly, to himself only, and to Daryth. He hoped devoutly that the Calishite could know his sorrow. "I did not deserve the loyalty of one such as you, and yet you gave it to me."
Tristan raised his eyes to the gray sky, staring upward through the blur of his tears. "By those same gods, I vow to avenge your death. I know I cannot bring you back, but I can only pray that your memory will grant me forgiveness!" He wept for the loss of his friend, and for his own terrible guilt in that loss. He seemed, everywhere, to be confronted by evidence of his own failure. He felt as if his life was degenerating into chaos. All of his failures seemed to culminate in the lifeless body of his friend, growing cold in this dead forest.
"No more!" he hissed, almost inaudibly. Pressing his fists to his eyes, he willed his tears to stop. He started at the touch of a hand upon his shoulder and looked up to see Tavish beside him.
"He was a brave man, and true," she said, her own eyes moist.
"And I was the one -" Tristan began angrily. "Don't say it!" warned the bard, an iron edge in her voice. "You are the High King of the Ffolk, king of us all. Our destiny is wrapped within yours, and some of us will die before you reach that destiny!"
The king listened. He wanted to argue, but the tone of her voice compelled him to remain silent.
"It grieves you to witness the death of those who serve you, and that is good, for you must share our pain. But you cannot carry the blame for those deaths. You must have a goal, and that is the goal for all of our people. That goal is the important thing!"
Tristan wanted to shout at her, to tell her that this was different. This was a death for which he bore special responsibility, for it was brought on by his own selfishness and arrogance.
But he said nothing. Instead, he thought about her words. It seemed a long time that he stood there, while Tavish sat beside a tree and began to strum a slow anthem on her lute.
The music floated around him, sweet and heartbreaking at the same time. It was full of minor chords, yet it resounded with a triumphant pattern that urged a listener to look up, not down.
"I always knew he needed me to look after him," said Pawldo. The halfling's face was red with grief. Tristan had always suspected that the diminutive adventurer cared for the Calishite more than he had admitted.
Newt and Yazilliclick curled up dejectedly on the ground. The faerie dragon's scales had darkened to a deep purple, a hue the others had never seen him take on. Yazilliclick peered into the woods nervously, his antennae twitching in agitation. Robyn returned, having found a suitable grave site, and Tristan carried the body behind her. The others offered to help, but he would have no assistance for this task.
They prepared Daryth for burial as best they could, covering his body and its horrible wound with his favorite red cloak. Robyn tenderly brushed his hair, and finally Daryth had the look, almost, of one who rested peacefully.
Tristan gently removed the Calishite's ensorcelled gloves and laid Daryth's hands across his chest. Turning to Pawldo, he held the soft leather objects toward the halfling. "These came from a place of long ago," he said haltingly. "I think he… he would have wanted you to have them."
The despondent Pawldo said nothing, but he took the gloves reverently and slid them onto his hands. Though they had been too large for the halfling while Tristan held them, they quickly shrunk to a skintight fit.
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