The Simbul's gift - Lynn Abbey [133]
"Elminster?" Bro knew the name. Everyone alive knew Elminster's name. "Is Elminster involved in this?"
Chayan scowled. "Elminster? Who said anything about Elminster?"
"You did, just now. You said 'Elminster, you hairy old goat, this is all your fault.'-"
"You heard me say that?" She scowled deeper and stared at his hand, still clutching the knife, before she shook her head. "I must be getting tired. It's something we said fighting the Tuigans. Whenever something went wrong: Elminster, this is your fault."
Bro walked beside her another few steps before saying, "You said it in Trade." He meant the common human language of all Faerun.
"There weren't many Cha'Tel'Quessir up fighting the Tuigans, Ebroin. You pick up a lot of languages when you spend your life fighting other folk's battles. Wait and see, when I'm truly exhausted, I might start cursing in goblin or orc."
Bro didn't expect to hear either of those exotic languages any time soon. He wasn't entirely convinced Chayan was tired. Rizcarn certainly wasn't. He was striding across the moonlit ground as if he'd just awakened from a good night's sleep and Chayan was having no trouble keeping up with him. The sell-sword was as strange as everything else in Bro's strange journey from Sulalk to who-knew-where, but when she held out her hand, he grasped it without hesitation.
There were eight, not eleven, Cha'Tel'Quessir waiting for them when they got back to the fire. Rizcarn said they should start walking again. Bro argued, saying they should wait until dawn and look for more survivors. He turned to Chayan, expecting her support, but she was as stone-faced as the others.
"Do you want to be in this place when the sun comes up?" she asked.
"No, but-"
"There are no more survivors, Ebroin."
"The dead?"
"It took four men half a day to dig Lanig's grave."
"Their beads?"
Chayan patted a pouch at her waist. "I have all I could find."
Rizcarn was leading the other eight away.
"This is war, Ebroin." She held out her hand again.
Bro shook it off. "It's Sulalk. It's the same as Sulalk." He had an unwelcome vision of crows and vultures perched on the cottage roof. "It's not right," he muttered, on the verge, suddenly, of tears. "It's not fair."
"It never is, Ebroin."
She took his hand and led him away.
They walked through dawn and into a bright, cool morning. Fewer people made faster progress along the trail. Bro recognized the forest now, in a general way. Details had changed in seven years, of course, but he knew when they were near MightyTree and said nothing as they walked past the trails that would have taken him south and west to home.
Rizcarn called a midday halt. Two of the Cha'Tel'Quessir fell asleep as soon as they sat. The rest ate what they had before closing their eyes. Rizcarn found a suitable rock to use with his chisel and started carving Relkath's rune into every tree large enough to hold it. Chayan told Bro to take a nap while she kept watch.
"Once I fall asleep, you're going to go off and talk to your cousin."
"You have a suspicious mind, Ebroin."
"But you are, aren't you? You wouldn't have walked away if you hadn't known he was alive. You're going to ask him about the Red Wizards, whether they were close enough to get killed, and tell him what you've seen, so he can tell the Simbul."
"And I suppose you'll follow me, if I don't invite you to come along?"
He didn't bother answering the question, but got up and walked with her. Trovar Halaern waited in the crook of a tree no more than three hundred paces from where they'd been sitting. The forester was tired and ragged.
"Bad storm last night, cousin," he said as he leapt down from the tree. "Worse for you though. I see Rizcarn survived, and Ebroin. You're still headed for the Sunglade?"
"Zandilar has Ebroin's colt. My bones say she's going to dance tonight whether we're there or not. What about our Red Wizard spies? How did they fare last night?"
"Better than they deserved, my-cousin. Wet and frightened and convinced that they're on the right trail. They outnumber you now, almost