Chapter 23

Even as the evening crept on the heat was palpable, a smothering blanket of energy sapping misery, dry and acrid. The only reprieve from the heat was the caress of the wind sweeping down the crags and valleys and rock formations, swirling along the brief stretches of flatlands that reached out between the red stones, or whipping along jagged, flinty corners of standing stones, clustered cliffs, and miniature mountains. The wind whistled a plaintive lament through the land's many cracks and crevices. The small places that sheltered the hidden things, the creeping things, the shy things. Things that no man wished to behold maybe. Or things that all men coveted perhaps. But no one could know, for the cracks and the crevices in the stone and the rock kept their own counsel, and the wind's voice, shrieking whistle-whisper that it was, never could find the words to express the visions it beheld.

The sun was a white-hot ball of fire plunging down to clip the edge of the world. It collided with the rim of the earth, so far off in the distance that it was ever unreachable by mortal hands, and where sun and earth met the sky exploded in vibrancy. The color of glittering, precious rubies here, the rich maroon of a dark, good wine there. Oranges and canary yellows piled in, rubbing elbows as the sky became cramped with colors. Beneath it all, bogged down by the weight of the other colors and shades until it traced the very edge of the horizon was the blotted purple of an aging bruise. The setting sun cast long shadows through the rocky landscape cast off by the many rock formations. They shaped mismatched pillars, resplendent with all forms of harshly cutting edges and protrusions of prickle-pointed outcrops, looking all the world like malformed limbs and jaggedly shattered bone.

Lounging on a flat, broad rock set low to the ground was a small group, no more than five, of Sanguis lizards. The large reptiles gathered on the flat stone, drawn to the warmth of the rock baking out in the sun. The Sanguis were so named for their blood-red scales and eyes. They were as long as a large dog, with short, blunt heads and long, curling tails. They were wide and flat and slinked with their bellies low to the ground, and their claws were long and hooked and strong, perfect for digging between rocks to climb and shimmy through the stone filled lands they made their home. A multitude of small spokes and horns sprouted from the crest of their back, and their sides, and around their eyes, intimidating and fearsome looking, but ultimately more useful in scaring away potential predators than serving any kind of harmful purpose.

Sanguis were quite common in this part of The Reach but the average traveler didn't have the eye or focus to spot them, even as large as they were; in the ever-present crimson shades of the red, rocky land, the reptiles blended in seamlessly. Soon they would all slink off to find a cave or a hollow or a crevice or a crack; someplace to spend the night unseen. But for just that moment, even as the shadows of nearby crags fell across their sunning stone, the rock held enough residual warmth to keep them lingering awhile longer.

The reptile's peaceful basking ended with the violent cracking of an arrow shot into their midst, and in a frantic whirl of panicked activity, the Sanguis' scattered in all directions, fleeing into the rocks and stones clustered all about.

"Damn all," Silmaria hissed fiercely as her shot went awry. She sprang off the back of her horse and sprinted over to the lizards' sunning rock, bow in one hand and her dagger in the other, hoping in vain to come upon one of the creatures before every one of them bolted off to shelter. But she was too late, and not for the first time that day, she came up empty handed.

"And another arrow down, to top it all off," the Gnari girl sighed as she retrieved the shattered remains of her arrow, the shaft snapped where it was fired into the rock. She took the arrow head and examined it, thinking maybe she could salvage that, at least, but the tip was bent and cracked.

"Cheap steel," Silmaria shook her head. "Thanks, Ricard."

She put her weapons away and returned to the horse she'd ridden out, the dappled gray mare with the flaxen mane she'd named Nemiah. Though both the horses were well trained and calm, she had a sweeter temperament than the dark stallion. Silmaria dubbed him StarChaser for the way his coat and mane reminded her of a starless night sky. She took Nemiah's reins and walked with the patient mare, who hadn't seemed at all bothered by her rider's sudden ejection from the saddle.

Silmaria walked toward camp, the powerful horse clomping along beside her, lost in thought. As if conjured by the speaking of his name, the images of Ricard's final moments flashed before her mind's eye: the man's battered body, the damage done at her Master's hands, only half-glimpsed but troubling. His mad, frantic eyes glowing with their strange burgundy fanaticism. His bloodied mouth a twisted rictus. His expression didn't falter, even as Rael cleaved the man's head from his shoulders. She still hadn't sorted through the weighty tangle of feelings and emotions that came with Ricard's death. Since that night, her heard was wrapped tight in the crushing grip of so much confusion and worry, hurt and doubt, she didn't even know where to begin with it all.

The sun was nearly down in truth now, but Silmaria didn't mind; she could see perfectly clearly in the fading twilight's bare light. After a few more moments of walking along Silmaria at last swung up into the saddle. Her flicking tail draped off the horse's side, idly skimming back and forth along the leather of the saddle and the mare's solid flank. Silmaria gently nudged the horse in the direction of camp with her knees. Nemiah needed no further direction and walked at a relaxed pace back to their camp, leaving Silmaria free to spiral deeper into the swirling vortex of her thoughts. Her mind raced about, spinning in every direction possible and dragging her along for the ride.

Ricard had seemed a perfectly normal, agreeable man. Reasonable, and kind even. A good example of a pious man living in service to his god and others. Silmaria couldn't fathom the incongruity of his sudden change into the hateful, conniving, and clearly mad traitor he showed himself to be. How could a person transform so completely? How could they be so fooled? And why would a seemingly ordinary Brother of the Tower have anything to do with the Assassins hounding them? It made no sense to her.

She would never be able to discover Ricard's motivations now, of course, because the man was dead.

That, more than all her questions and fears and confusion about the Brotherhood and the Assassins, bothered her most of all. No matter how much Silmaria told herself it was necessary, no matter how many times the Gnari girl reminded herself that Ricard had tried to kill them, was involved in a plot to murder herself and her Master, Silmaria just could not come to grips with the brutality of the traitor Brother's death.

And, more pointedly, her Master's part in it.

Ricard's head, bobbing along the ground, rolling in the dirt and the dust to come to rest at her feet. His eyes no less mad in death than they were in life, they were open and staring. She'd been sure they saw her still, then.

Hazy, blood-rimmed windows into something dark and terrible.

Rael lifted the head by its short brown hair, and hurled it into the copse of trees around them with all his quickly fading might.

Somehow, in her heart, Silmaria couldn't reconcile that. She couldn't understand how the kind, loving, protective man she had given herself to so completely could have done those things. Oh, she knew Rael was capable of violence. She knew he was a man of war, and battle, and death. She even knew he could be cold and calculating when he deemed necessary. But never had she thought him ruthless. Never had she imagined him cruel.

But was what he did truly cruel? Silmaria didn't know. Her mind reminded her, again and again, that Ricard was their enemy. That Rael did what he did out of necessity. The man could surely have been a threat to them, even then, and there was no mistaking the hate and malice that shone in his eyes. A malevolent mien glinted in his grin, seeped tangibly from every pore in his skin. But he was quite obviously crazed as well, demented. His mind was a broken thing.

She'd been too far to hear but the very last scrap of their conversation, and the brief, mad ravings he'd spouted before Rael silenced him. They were strange, taunting words, but they did not seem the sort of thing to kill a man over.

And that was what made her heart twist; not understanding. Not understanding what was wrong with Ricard, or what had driven her Master to such extremes. The man had seemed a lame thing to her, twisted and unhinged. She had difficulty seeing the man as a threat in that light. He was bound and defenseless. Yet Rael had done dreadful things to him. Tormented him. Tortured him. Silmaria wasn't certain how; she'd seen as much evidence as she cared to, and wished she'd not seen even that. But it was clear enough that Rael knew how to make a man talk when he needed.

Silmaria bobbed along as Nemiah carried her between the hills and rock formations. She saw the road, in the distance to the west, winding its way southward. But it was not but a tiny ribbon along the horizon, and she'd never have made it out if she didn't know it was there already. Their camp was far from the road and nestled in a sheltering alcove of rock and stone, hiding them well away from prying eyes.

Her love had tortured a man. Tortured him and killed him. And he wouldn't tell her why. For all the days following, as they raced and fled away from the carnage at the Tower Brothers' inn, Rael refused to speak of Ricard, or the things that happened that night. His focus was bent solely on escape, and in the small snatched moments of rest, he'd either been too exhausted to speak of it, or unwilling. Silmaria told herself he did what was necessary. That it was Rael's strength of will and unyielding stoicism that kept them safe and alive when faced with difficult decisions. But her heart said it was cruelty she hadn't thought him capable of. Rael could have let him live. He could have shown mercy.

And what of me? Silmaria thought to herself harshly. Have I never done something cruel and unnecessary in the name of survival and self-preservation?

Perhaps, a voice that was her own whispered in her ear. It was reproachful, and afraid. But have you ever murdered someone as they were bound and defenseless? That man was a deranged fanatic. He was more deserving of pity than death.

"It wasn't like that," Silmaria said in a harsh whisper. "There was a reason. There had to be a reason. Master wouldn't kill someone for nothing. He's a good man. A good man."

Silmaria repeated this, in her mind, over and over again, as she swayed gently in the saddle. She knew it was the truth; even though her doubts remained, nipping at the heels of her mind, leaving her confused and conflicted and awash in more emotions than she could name, Silmaria believed her mantra. Her Master was a good man.

It was a slim thread of hope, a shining strand to cling to in the darkness of fear and doubt and uncertainty. But it was all she had.

For just then, it was enough.

The Gnari girl lacked the luxury of dwelling on doubts when she arrived at their camp. Rael was moaning faintly and thrashing about, spending the precious little strength he had left. His blankets were kicked away. His face was a mask of death; sweat-slick and sallow, his cheeks were sunken so deeply he seemed almost skeletal, as if he'd been languishing near death and starving for weeks instead of a few feverish days.

Silmaria nearly tumbled out the saddle as she rushed to him. She had no time to unsaddle Nemiah or tie her reins to a nearby stunted tree. The horse would wander off, or she would stay. Silmaria was too focused on her love to care. She knelt beside him as he writhed about in twitches and spasms. She laid the back of her hand to his sweating brow and was near scalded by the heat pouring off him like an inferno. His jerking was nearly bowing his body from the ground, then. He clawed at the air above him, clutching at something unseen and unnamed. His hands shook tremulously, and the backs of them were ropy with veins and tendons like an old man's. Silmaria reached up and gently pushed his hands and body down onto the pallet she'd made for him. Making his body comply was pathetically easy, frighteningly easy.

Rael's body was preparing itself for The Mending. His fever raged out of control, his body too hot to touch comfortably as his body shed water from sweat faster than she could put it back in him. He was dehydrated despite her best efforts, and he was losing weight and vitality at a horrifying rate, as if his body was consuming and syphoning off every last bit of fuel and resource it had to stoke the fire that would eventually burn through him from the inside out.

After their escape from the inn it had taken three days of hard riding before Rael succumbed to his wounds and his exhaustion, and fell from the saddle. It had been an absolute nightmare to get him slung across StarChaser's back, and Silmaria only succeeded at all because the intelligent horse had cooperated with the process. They rode on, searching for an acceptable place to settle and rest. By the time Silmaria found a spot secure and hidden enough for her to feel comfortable making camp in, Rael's fever had begun in earnest. Peeling back the dressings she'd bound over his wounds had nearly made her gag; every last wound was badly infected.

In the following days, Rael's condition declined rapidly and his wounds only became worse. Despite every effort on Silmaria's part to keep his injuries clean, despite using every trick she knew for treating infections with the limited supplies she had available, the wounds were festering and purulent, especially the deep wound in his shoulder blade. Silmaria felt certain the bone was fractured and there were bone fragments loose in his back. But she had no tools to remove the shards, and she was no surgeon to begin with.

Silmaria changed his dressings and made a simple poultice from the leaves of a Grey-Root tree. It was not a potent remedy, but she wasn't familiar enough with most of The Reach's plant life to make a more effective one. Despite her efforts, the infection continued to worsen by the day.

At this rate, Silmaria wasn't sure what would kill him first; the infection raging through him, the fever cooking him alive from the inside, or his body simply cannibalizing itself until he had nothing left to give. Looking at him now, drawn out and scoured by agony and suffering, Silmaria imagined any of those possibilities being more likely than his making it to The Mending.

At last Rael grew quiet, simply too feeble and exhausted to struggle or play out his fever dreams any longer. He fell into a sleep that was at once frighteningly deep, yet never truly restful.

With a heavy heart and troubled mind, Silmaria cleaned and re-dressed her Master's wounds and wiped away the sweat soaking his body. She poured as much water into his slack mouth as she could, and settled him comfortably on his pallet. Telling herself she'd done all she could for him just then, she went about tending their camp; she unsaddled and brushed down Nemiah, who'd wandered over to sand complacently beside StarChaser. She fed the horses some of the wild nuts she'd gathered from the low hanging branches of a Zeal tree, munching a few of the crunchy little morsels herself before feeding the horses handfuls of the dried, sun-withered grasses she'd gathered up for them.

The mounts tended and fed, Silmaria took some short, gnarled branches of Witherwood and piled them into the firepit she'd dug into the dirt and clay. She started a modest fire, keeping it small to minimize the chances of any unfriendly eyes taking notice of it. She set one of the battered tin pots onto the fire and filled it with water from her skins. She would need to retrieve more water from the nearby spring she'd found in the low hills at the foot of the rock formation to the west tomorrow morning.

Once the water came to a boil, Silmaria took the soiled bandages she'd just removed from Rael's wounds, and dunked them into the boiling water. She let them soak for roughly five minutes or so, and pulled them out. She dumped the putrid water, refilled the pot, and set the new water to reach a boil while she vigorously pounded and scrubbed the linen dressings on a nearby rock before returning them into the boiling water once more. She repeated this process three times. It was far from ideal; Silmaria would have far preferred to use fresh, unused bandages every time she changed them, but if she'd done that she would have shredded every bit of clothing they had to use for bandages by then, and she still would have come up short. There was no help for it, and wishing for things to be different would change nothing. So Silmaria did all she could with what she had, and prayed to gods she didn't particularly believe in to see her love through once more.

Silmaria stashed the pot she'd used to boil the bandages and took a different pot, placing it over the fire. She took a few slender roots she'd gathered from the Grey-Root tree, chopped then up fine with her knife, and threw them into the water to boil down into a tea known for its fever reducing properties, the third batch she'd made that day. After letting it cool, the Gnari woman propped Lord Rael's head on her lap and poured as much of the thin tea into him as she could manage, rubbing his throat gently with her free hand to coax him to swallow. He didn't get near as much down as she would have liked, but she hoped it would keep his fever from going any higher than it was, at least.

After working for several more moments to get some water in him as well, Silmaria let out a sigh of utter exhaustion. That was it. There was nothing else she could do just then, no matter how desperately she wanted to help ease her love's suffering. There was only so much she could do. She swept her long black curls, which had spilled rebelliously down her back and into her face, into a messy pile atop her head and bound it there with a leather tong. She sank without any of her usual grace onto her backside beside the fire, and reached for the pack with their food and rations. She pulled out a stiff heel of bread, two turnips, a carrot, and a strip of dried and cured venison.

The heel of bread was probably hard enough to crack some of the rocks around her. Silmaria cut up the vegetables and tossed them into her small cooking pot, along with half of the venison strip, some water, and a small pinch of salt from the pouch they'd picked up from the inn. She chewed what was left of the venison strip while she waited for her dinner to cook. She stretched out her lithe limbs, and then let out a soft moan of misery as her joints all seemed to pop and crackled at once. Her bones held onto a deep, throbbing ache, and Silmaria felt aged far beyond her years.

Leaning back on her hands, Silmaria cast her feline eyes upward. The sky was clear as fine glass tonight, openly expanding into infinity with nary a cloud to obscure the view. The stars were out in stunning abundance, a gallery of the heavens finest hosts, shining with the sort of brilliance that made the heart swell and spirit soar. They glittered in multitudes of multitudes, a challenge, a promise, an entreaty. Forget the petty squabbles and insincere pains of your world down there on the ground. Behold splendor unimagined! The unattainable beauty that is our very existence! Watch us dance, and slide, cavort and race and soar as we go spiraling through the ether. We stars, we jewels, we truest of souls, we whose ethereal effervescence rivals the gods themselves.

It was a sky to reach up and touch. To be drawn into. To lose oneself in, for a night, or a lifetime.

The night was filled with the chittering and shifting and quiet calls of nocturnal things prowling and sneaking, shifting and slithering through The Reach. There were Shadow Specters and Black Divers, the nighthawks that made their homes seemingly everywhere south of The Teeth, from the Johake Grasslands to The Reach and beyond. They pierced the sky with sharp, sudden screeches before the wind whistled high and vibrant where they pass by, small and sleek and on the hunt. The horses snorted softly where they slept on their feet a short ways away, dreaming equine dreams. The fire popped occasionally, and the air was filled with fresh burning wood and the wafting smell of bubbling soup.

A good night.

A perfect night.

Except her love lay a few feet away, dying.

Silmaria choked back a sob, even as the tears rushed down her cheeks, soaking into her pelt. She curled her knees up to her chest and rocked slowly on her heels, her arms wrapped about her drawn up legs. Lord Rael was wasting away. He was worse this time, Silmaria knew. His fever and infection had progressed quicker, and he seemed even more drained and racked by sickness than he'd been in the cave.

She doubted he would last another full day.

The moments tick by, ponderously heavy. Each moment arrived weighted with tension as she waited for her Master's Mending to quicken, each moment passed crushing with the burden of disappointment.

It wasn't fair. To lose him now, after they'd been through so much! After so many miles, dangers unending, and enough heartache to lay the most stoic man low. It wasn't right that after finally finding love in his arms, that she should lose him now. She was hurt, and confused, and he was supposed to be there to make those things go away and to protect her. He was supposed to care for her and love her. She was lost without him, and worst of all she doubted what he'd done, and he was dying, and her guilt and shame swirled in with her sorrow and grief, mingling, making it all the more potent. And as much as she hated herself for it, she couldn't help but doubt still.

And all this, for what?

For a traitor-madman, who had no more answers than sense.

After a time, either a flickering instant or an unnoticed eternity, the Gnari woman swallowed her sorrow. Set her jaw hard, as she'd watched her Master do so often. She let her pain overtake her sorrow, then. Let it burn inside her, hard and needling her insides until she was raw with it. The pain was easier than the sorrow, or the loss to come, or the confusion.

She clung to her pain, focused on it, and Silmaria began to pray. She didn't know to whom she sent out her wordless entreaties; she'd never held much stock in The Circle of Twelve. The old gods? Though they were the gods of her long lost Mother and the Father she'd never known, Silmaria held no bond with them, either. In the end, it didn't matter. The Twelve. The old gods. The Highest Holy. Hell, the fucking stars themselves, even. She would pray to the birds and the sea, the earth, the ether, the fire boiling her soup over if it made a difference!