Like delicate curtains, long beards of dripping moss hung from the ancient trees that circled around. The silver moon, cool and distant, shone in the star-filled sky above, and each droplet that fell from the branches shone like a sparkling gem. The moon’s face was reflected in the rippling pool, an image broken and shattered with each drop hitting the pond’s surface. All around was the quiet sound of trickling water. Water dripped down the rocks and into the pool, a miniature waterfall that filled the glade with music. And there, a queen of nature, with skin dusky as the night-bound trees and hair as black as the starry sky above...
Eric couldn’t speak. He felt awkward, and all that was coming into his head was the dumb jokes that had saved him before. But he couldn’t dismiss her with a joke. Not now. Not after all that had happened. He shifted uncomfortably, lost for words.
Diana lifted her eyes slowly and broke the emptiness between them. "Thank you, Eric. This is beautiful."
His voice squeaked and he cleared his throat before answering, "I’m...uh...I’m glad you like it. I thought it’d be good to get away from the camp. The others will be here to wash up in a bit, but...."
"It’s all right...." Her voice was...it was honey. Ice cream. What was he going to say?
"I hope they didn’t hurt you," he said lamely.
Diana shook her head. "No. I was afraid they would. I had heard stories about the Red Blades. If I had known that you were with them...." She turned away guiltily. So many had died at Trebant Fields.
The pain, the smell of blood, it all welled up within him, and for a moment Eric could have gagged at all the memories. "I needed to learn. I couldn’t get to Tardos Keep. They’re good people, Diana. We were fighting for a good cause...they’re heroes. So many of us...my sergeant...he was hacked apart...." The words spilled out, but they weren’t what he wanted to say at all.
The silver moonlight glittered over fresh tears that spilled down Diana’s cheeks. She had thought she was not going to cry any more, but the tears kept spilling out. She wanted to keep them in. She didn’t want to be hurt. "I didn’t know, Eric. And the Blades, and Darkcruigh...they invaded Coulone. How was I to know you were with them? I’ve seen so many things, Eric. The villagers...I was on those battlefields too. And afterwards...."
Eric bowed his head and looked away. Diana rubbed at her cheeks. Out of the warmness of his gaze, she could think. She could feel it again, the edge they had teetered on for so many years. How they would get closer and closer, and then he would do something that would irritate her no end, and she’d snap back, and they’d push each other away, angry. Until once again he would prove himself, and the whole cycle would start over again. The old habits. They were still there, bubbling under the surface despite everything that had happened.
Diana watched Eric’s pale face in the moonlight, the way the wind ruffled his black hair. She didn’t want to play that game again.
She didn’t know how to stop.
Suddenly, Eric jumped to his feet. "Take my hand," he said, reaching out a hand to Diana.
Confused, Diana slowly reached up to take Eric’s hand. His grip was firm as he held hers. He pulled her up to his feet. "Eric...?"
Eric glanced across the moonlit pool, and then looked straight into Diana’s eyes. "Trust me." She caught a flicker of movement in his expression, but before she could let go, Eric jumped into the rippling waters, pulling Diana in with him.
Diana sputtered and gasped as she felt herself pulled up to the surface by Eric's strong hand. Eric pulled her to her feet, and she blinked the water out of her eyes. He had the biggest, goofiest grin she had ever seen, and water was streaming down his hair. His clothes, like hers were soaked through. "What was that for?" she asked in shocked confusion.
His smile slipped away, but still lingered in his eyes. "Because," he said, pulling her closer. "Because we both have had too much of war. Because it's time to wash all of the blood and memories away, and go back to where we came from. Kids in a strange world. Far from home."
Her voice was husky as the tears sprang to her eyes again, re-released at the memories of all those years searching for a way home. But the tears mingled instantly with the water running down her face. "We're not kids any more, Eric," she whispered.
He folded his arms around her. "So much the better."
Anything else she might have said was lost in their kiss.
"Come on, Hank. We just need to reach the other side of these woods. I think I see moonlight that way..." Presto tried to keep the worry out of his voice. The last thing Hank needed to know was how frightened he was. Especially now.
They had waited until the sun had set, crouched in the blind like rabbits in a hole. For hours, Presto had watched the sun creep across the sky, not daring to speak or move, hardly daring to breathe for fear the villagers would find them. And beside him, Hank faded in and out, bleeding from that horrible arrow in his shoulder. He could tell that Hank was in pain, but the ranger never made a sound. Sometimes he seemed to be asleep, and sometimes his eyes were open and his jaw was knotted so tight Presto could see the sinews. But Hank never spoke. Even after the Villagers were long out of earshot, Hank refused to let Presto touch the arrow.
Finally, the golden sunlight turned red, then disappeared all together. Hank nodded to him, and he helped pull his friend out of the blind. They ran through the forest as the shadows closed tight around them. Presto did not dare make a light, picking their way through the gloom as much with feel as sight. The arrow seemed to catch on every branch they passed, but Hank insisted that he not even try to break it off until they were someplace safer. The forest had been eerily quiet, as if the animals still remembered the hunters that had ripped through them in the daylight hours.
Presto, skin still blistered and swollen by the poisonous gases, was fully supporting Hank now. With every step the ranger seemed to grow weaker, and they had run for two hours or more. They would not be able to run further tonight. With a few staggering steps, the pair entered the moonlit clearing.
The forest, which had been dark and grim under the shadow of the trees, became less sinister in the pale shafts of moonlight. Above, the white moon showed her face, and Presto could see the faint twinkling of stars. He gently helped Hank lay down on the soft bed of pine needles and moss that made up the floor of the clearing. "Here you go, Hank. They won't find us here."
Hank did not answer. Whether it was pain or exhaustion, he had fallen unconscious from the wound.
"It's up to you, Presto," the young magician said under his breath. With a twiddle of his fingers, he created a small light and hung it on an overhanging branch. In the pale blue glow, he could see the clearing.
The clearing was a semi-circle of trees in front of an old, broken wall. There had been an archway once, but it had long fallen into ruin, as had the building behind it. There might have been more blocks of stones beyond the edge of the clearing, but Presto's meager light did not illuminate them.
The portion of archway and wall still standing were of carved stone, a trim of scrolled leaves and flowers from some time lost to the ancient history of the Realm. All that remained of it was a shell-shaped fountain jutting from the wall, as though to permit guests to wash hands and faces before entering an abode. The fountain's spout was dry, but when Presto touched the surface of the water it was clean and pure. 'Small miracles.' He tore the sleeve off of his robe and soaked it.
Presto went back to where Hank lay, breathing shallowly with the arrow jutting from his shoulder. He took a deep breath. Madelaine had taught him much of the healing arts, though he had no herbs to help Hank and it was too dark to look for them. But he had to take the arrow out. He was glad that Hank was still unconscious. He used the strip of cloth to carefully wash the wound, picking away all of the twigs and dirt he could. Probing as gently as possible, he felt around the arrowhead, his fingers in the wound. The arrow was very deep, but he could feel the back of the head. It was not barbed. The villagers used their arrows for hunting, not for torturing wounded beasts. 'More miracles.' Despite everything, Presto couldn't help but be grateful. He took off his shirt and tore it into more strips to have bandages ready.
"Close your eyes, Hank," he told the unheeding ranger. "I'm sorry." He knelt at Hank's side, pinning his shoulder with his knee. Gritting his teeth, he wrapped both hands around the cold shaft of the arrow. "Ready?" The question was as much for himself as for the ranger, but there was no response. "1...2...3..."
He pulled. The arrow slid out of the wound. Presto grimaced as he heard the harsh sound of metal against bone as it came out, and it was quickly followed with a flow of blood. Presto immediately packed the wound with the wet cloth, and wrapped it as tightly as he could with the bandages he had made. He thought for a second of trying to create fire and cauterizing the wound, but the fire crackled around his thoughts dangerously, and he didn't dare.
Hank's face was pale, but his breathing grew easier as Presto watched. Still, Presto knew there was no way the wound would heal without better care than this. He didn't know if Hank would survive wound-fever or any of the other infections that Madeline had taught him about.
There was no choice. Before the sun rose, he would have to leave and find help despite Madeline's well-proved warnings. Without it, Hank would die.
Tiamat uncurled herself in her dark cave, stretching out her wings. One head looked behind her, into the gloomy cavern, where a new clutch of eggs lay nestled in the warm pile of gold. The eggs shone, to her fond eyes, warm with brilliant colors, red and blue, silver and gold. They were new now, still glistening with the dampness of her body. Time would bring them to maturity, though, and with them...
"A new age...." The sibilant whisper came out of the darkness as an array of necks entwined themselves around her own. "Care for them well."
"As ever," she growled back, her voice shaking the caves, a chorus of dragons.
The Other's necks separated from hers, and his many eyes glittered like jewels. "Then I leave you. Farewell, Beloved."
Tiamat said nothing, feeling the push of his body as he moved past her, the trail of his mighty wings brushing her own. She turned her heads to watch him take flight into the darkness, a shadow across the sky. As he flew upwards, in the moonlight she could see the flash of silver from his flanks before he disappeared into the star-strewn sky.
"Farewell, my Husband."
Then, he was gone.
The light of a thousand stars glittered in the cloudless sky, and the full moon was radiant overhead. Sheila glared at it angrily. It would only make her task harder, and the palace was not an easy place to enter. The rows of marble pillars shone pale in the darkness, like maidens attending the palace of the King. A dry wind whispered past, carrying with it the sound of footsteps. The guards. Sheila waited for them to pass.
As soon as the footsteps had died away, she darted forward, crossing the courtyard quickly. The shadow of another pillar swallowed her. This second row of columns lined one side of a breezeway that had many large arches that led into the palace proper. As she paused to assess the courtyard, she went over the plans to the palace, and all Randall had told her. She could see the steps she had to climb. Her goal, the coffer of gold and jewels hidden in the palace treasury. It was the prize, Randall told her, for the owner of the fastest steed in the races that were to be held later in the week. That was a lie too, of course. But Sheila no longer cared. She would just be happy to leave this hot and hungry land. Once she knew the path was clear, she quickly ascended the shining marble archway.
The courtyard was spread out below her magnificently. A fountain splashed and sparkled in the moonlight, and the tiles around it spread out in intricate geometric designs. She ducked below the edge of the railing before she could be spotted.
"I heard someone! That way!" The shout went up right at the edge of earshot, and Sheila remained frozen as the guards thundered past as they went to investigate. Their armor of burnished brass shone, and their swords were drawn. Their steps faded into the distance as they followed the call. She dared a peek into the corridor. It was empty.
A few hundred feet, and she was crouching in the shadow of the armory door. Her fingers flew to her tools, and she had the lock picked open in less than three seconds. She slipped in and closed the door behind her.
The room was surprisingly empty. A few suits of armor, looking ancient, stood on stands along one side of the room. Some weapons were carefully polished and wrapped, stored in racks or displayed on the wall. Brittle scrolls stacked the shelves. In the center, on a table lit by a single shaft of moonlight, was the coffer. Sheila reached out, taking the coffer by the handles...
"I thought you might come tonight." A voice, sweet as honey with the accent of these desert people. Sheila whirled, hands going to the little dagger at her belt.
A slender figure stepped out from between two suits of armor. She was dressed in a white pleated dress, but against the white marble amidst the shadows, she had been impossible to spot. In her hand, she held a long, curved knife, glittering with jewels. Sheila could not make out her face. She drew her own dagger, but hesitated. She had never killed anyone before.
The hesitation was enough. Instead of leaping forward to attack her as Sheila thought, the woman gave a piercing cry, and darted forward to block Sheila's path to the door. Sheila could already hear the heavy feet and cries of the guards returning.
"My father's guards can be so foolish sometimes. I thought it would be best to keep watch myself."
Maybe Randale will get here first. He can get me out... the thief thought, backing up to keep the table between her and her captor's blade. The shouting was nearer now. She didn't dare say a word.
The woman at the door cocked her head, weaving her blade back and forth through the air, ready to parry any attack. "You seem familiar to me somehow. Step into the moonlight where I can...."
Suddenly, the door behind her was pulled open. Sheila sprang forward, eager to jump into Randall's arms and be taken away from this place. But instead of Randall's cloaked figure, she saw a door blocked with eight large, muscular palace guards. Their swords were drawn. The first two advanced. The woman with the knife stepped out of their way.
Light spilled from the corridor into the darkened treasury, brightening the face of the young woman who had caught her. Sheila froze, her dagger clattering to the floor.
"Aiesha?" She whispered.
Then the guards were on her.
"Damn....hurts...." Hank cursed softly to himself as he peeled open his eyes. He felt light-headed and cold, but the wound in his shoulder burned. He vaguely remembered running in the darkness, but not where he was now. It was dark all around him, and his vision seemed distorted somehow, part clear and part veiled as if by mist. He could make out the outline of tree-branches swaying against a moonlit sky, but little else. The sound of night crickets and frogs was comforting, but not what had awoken him. There had been...something. He closed his eyes again and listened.
There it was again...a sound like wind chimes blown by a gentle breeze. Hank became aware of a faint radiance. He opened his eyes again, and lurched backwards with surprise. The sudden motion sent the world spinning again and made him cry out in pain at the renewed hurt in his shoulder.
But the large, gentle violet eyes before him merely blinked slowly and Hank seemed to hear laughter like the sound of wind chimes.
As the world stopped spinning and Hank rested weakly on his good arm, the face came into focus. A white forehead, crowned with a golden horn, a silky main of fiery red-gold. A unicorn. She was tall and majestic, shining with an inner light as soft and white as the moonlight above. Her deep eyes held a look of intelligence...and compassion.
Hank's heart felt tight as he gazed affixed on the image of such beauty. But he was weak, and hurt so badly. The shoulder that was supporting him collapsed, and he had to bite back a whimper as he collapsed onto his back again. After a moment, he could trust himself to speak.
"Hi." The glow changed position, but the unicorn did not enter his field of vision. "What brings you here?"
Come. Hank could hear the windchimes, but this time, it came with a voice, beautiful as the chimes, speaking without sound.
He had to chuckle softly. "I'm sorry, Friend. I don't know what I can do for you...not like this. Presto...he'll be back soon."
Come, the beautiful voice said again.
Hank coughed to clear his throat. There was a metallic taste in his mouth. "You don't understand. I...can't get up. I can't help you."
I can help you, if you come. You must. You must see...a journey you must undertake. Absolute sincerity shone in the words that rippled through Hank's mind. He knew he could trust her.
It was pure faith and pure will that forced Hank to roll and lurch to his feet. The Unicorn knelt beside him, and the ranger fell, rather than climbed, onto her pearly-white back. She lifted him lightly; he did not even need to hang on. He sagged against her back, feeling his pain slip away as she rose steadily and bounded into the dark and moonlit forest.
"Will Presto know where to find me?" Hank mumbled into her mane.
He has his own journey to travel today.
Presto trudged on. He pushed his way out through a long tangle of brambles and tall, pink foxgloves that skirted the forest edge, breaking out into a weedy field. The sky to the east was brightening in a pale red dawn, but most of the world still lay in shadow. "Good. A field. That means farms...and that means help for Hank." Presto pulled a clinging bramble from the white robe. His shirt and pants were pretty much tattered after his capture and then using them to bind Hank's wounds. The robe remained stainless, but the magician inside the robe looked pretty tattered himself. It had been a long night, and he was tired and frightened. Against the dawn, Presto could make out a trail of smoke and the outline of a roof. He pushed east.
Presto could smell it before he saw anything. A sick, sweet stench, mixed with spicy woodsmoke. It made him want to choke, and he held his nose as he picked his way forward carefully. His foot caught on something, and he stumbled, catching himself quickly. A cloud of flies leapt into the air with a buzzing sound, revealing the torn, mangled face of a young man staring sightlessly into the sky. Presto recoiled in horror, but did not turn away. Once, he would have been terrified. But the feeling rising in his heart was a strange, unfamiliar anger. He pushed it down. He'd seen this and worse before.
The body wore light chain. A broken sword was still clutched in its hand. A gaping wound across its neck showed the cause of death. A soldier. Presto bit his lip and stepped carefully around the body. A quick examination of the nearby farmhouse confirmed his fears. It was just an empty shell...the waves of battle had swept past here, and left burned homes and broken lives in its wake.
Still, there was no choice for it. Trying to ignore the silent mounds that the rising sun revealed, Presto pushed forward, looking for someone who could help Hank.
Sheila sat on the tiny cot, her arms wrapped around her knees. Mentally, she went over every moment of her capture, trying to make sense of it. She was raiding the treasury of a wicked king for Randale. She had gotten in successfully...and suddenly, there was Aiesha. Out of nowhere. The guards had captured her easily in her shock at that discovery. They had confiscated her lockpicks and knives, and put her, firmly, into a small, dry cell on the lower floors. Aiesha had disappeared only a few moments after the guards had arrived. Through the tiny, barred window, she could see the pale glow of dawn coming. Sheila waited.
"I just need to be patient. Randale will rescue me."
Of course he would. She loved him. He had to.
Memories bubbled out of the shadows in her mind. Another cell, this one slimy and stinking of orcs, but she was willing to wait. It never took long to see his serious blue eyes through the bars in the door. The darkness would light up around his face as she'd peek out, and then with an electric hum, he'd cut open the lock with his bow. She'd push the door open and fall into his arms. He'd tilt his head down and they'd...
No. They wouldn't kiss. Bobby would shout 'Sis!' excitedly, and Hank would let her go, more intent on getting the gang safely out. And she would smile and follow him, eager to get away.
Hank had always come back for her.
But Hank hadn't saved Bobby.
Sheila gritted her teeth.
The soft pad of footsteps made Sheila look up. Through the window grating, she could see a pair of boots she recognized. She jumped up and grabbed the bars.
"Randale," she whispered. "I'm down here."
The boots shifted a little, moving just out of her reach.
"I hear you, My Desert Queen. Hush." The Master Thief's voice was barely above a whisper.
"Are you going to get me out of here? I don't think there are very many guards."
The silence was very long. "I can't. The King's men are skilled, and they'd track me down even if I did manage to get away with you. The innkeeper has seen us together." Randale's voice sounded rueful.
Sheila drew her hand back, her voice hardening. "Then you are going to leave me here?" Her lip trembled, though with pain or fury, not even she could tell.
"Don't be that way, My Dear. The King is considered to be uncommonly merciful. Forty lashes, maybe some time imprisoned. At the worst, you lose a hand. You don't need to fear the gallows. And you're good enough to be working on your own now. A year, maybe two, and you'll be allowed to move on."
The young thief's voice was like ice. "A hand...?" She did not know what to say.
"I am sorry, Apprentice. I'd hoped we could have worked together for a long time, but I guess that is not the way it is supposed to be. Good luck to you. I need to go now."
The regular march of a guard patrol drew closer. Sheila peeked out of the window to catch a cloaked figure cross the road in a few long steps and jump himself gracefully over a wall and out of view.
A dull pain beat in her chest. Sheila returned to sitting on the cot, pulling in the pain, squeezing it tight.
Love brings betrayal. Better to turn your heart to stone than to love. No one would ever love her anyway. Better, then, not to let yourself feel. Better not to let yourself be hurt. Forty lashes. And Randale was gone. Sheila would have to find a glacier full of ice to survive this day. Alone in the dawn-lit cell, she went to work finding it.
Hank had always come back for her.
But Hank hadn't saved Bobby.