The Binding Stone

CHAPTER 2

Twilight lay purple against the sky by the time the forest opened up and Singe looked down into the shallow valley that held-so a tavernkeeper had told them two days ago-the hamlet of Bull Hollow and the end of the long western road.

Given that the “road” was really more of a vague track, Singe didn’t hold out any great hope for the “hamlet” either.

Toller d’Deneith urged his horse up alongside Singe’s. The young man’s face twisted as he looked down. “That’s it?” he asked.

“I told you not to expect much.” Singe studied the valley. The buildings of Bull Hole were shrouded by trees, but at least a dozen thin plumes of rising smoke were clustered together. A short distance away from the plumes, a broad clearing opened up around what seemed to be stone ruins. Here and there, other clearings broke through the trees where small farms had been cut from the forest. He grunted. Maybe the place had potential after all.

“Let’s get down there,” he said. “If we need to knock on doors looking for a place to sleep, it’s best to do it while there’s still some light.”

“You don’t think they’ll have an inn?”

Singe’s mouth curled into a grin. “We have a saying in Aundair: cow-paths don’t lead to palaces. This is the very end of the loneliest cow-path in the Eldeen, Toller. Do you think Bull Hollow will have an inn?”

Toller sat up a straight, needled by the comment. “A little respect would be appropriate, Lieutenant Bayard!” His hand went, unconsciously, to the hem of the blue jacket that he wore in spite of the heat, pulling it taut so that the silver embroidered emblem of the Watchful Eye superimposed on an upright sword-symbol of the Blademarks mercenary guild of House Deneith-flashed in the fading light of the setting sun.

Singe brushed back a stray lock of blond hair, crossed his hands over the pommel of his saddle, and gave the young man a lazy stare. A similar jacket, though without Toller’s insignia of rank, was folded up in his saddlebags in favor of a much lighter vest. Toller was sweating in spite of the cool of evening. He wasn’t.

“Singe,” he said calmly. “Call me Singe. Lieutenant Singe if you have to.” He sat up straight. “Commander.”

Toller flushed and glanced away. “Sorry, Singe.”

Singe rolled his eyes. “Twelve moons! Stop apologizing!” he groaned. He twitched his horse’s reins and the animal started to move again. “If you can’t do at least that, your first command will be your last!”

“Right. Sorr-” Toller caught himself and closed his mouth. Singe nodded his approval and the young man allowed himself a half-smile. “Does this mean I can actually call you-?”

“No.”

Bull Hollow, when they reached it, turned out to be a cluster of well-kept, mostly wooden buildings arranged around a central common like gamblers around a cock pit. The majority of the buildings were houses, a few were simple shops of various kinds, and at least one had the stout stone walls of a smithy. That the small community managed to support more than one commercial establishment at all was something of a surprise, but Singe supposed that Bull Hollow actually served as the trading hub for a region that spread far beyond its little valley.

Toller reached over and prodded him. “Look at that.”

Singe looked. On the far side of the common was a large whitewashed building with a number of windows and what looked like a low-slung stable to one side. A goodly number of folk were gathered at the ground floor and, from what he could see through open windows, all of the visitors held mugs and tankards. He sat back. “Twelve moons,” he said.

“It’s an inn?” asked Toller.

“An inn or something enough like one that I’m willing to chance it.” He nodded to Toller. “Maybe I was wrong about this place.”

He turned his horse toward the large building, Toller wheeling his mount sharply in order to stay close. Their arrival was beginning to bring attention. More and more faces all around the hamlet’s common were turning in their direction. Eyes were wide and he caught more than one over-loud whisper of excitement and curiosity. A good number were directed toward Toller and the insignia of House Deneith.

Toller was staring back. “Maybe now would be a good time to begin recruiting,” he whispered. “We have their attention and they’re clearly interested.”

“We have plenty of time,” Singe murmured back. He barely moved his lips as he nodded to a young lass in a homespun dress of a cut that looked like it had come out of another century. “Let them come to us. We’ll have some dinner and give them a chance to get a few drinks inside themselves. When we’ve worked our way back toward civilization with a train of recruits for the Blademarks in tow, that’s the time to talk fast and try to sell the benefits of becoming a mercenary. For now, relax and use your eyes. Reachers make good scouts and wilderness fighters-try and spot the best ones before they start posing for us.”

“You’re the veteran,” said Toller. “Have you ever been out this far before?”

Singe pressed his lips together and fixed his gaze on the tavern. For a moment he was silent, then he said, “Almost. Once, years ago. During the war and much further north. My first recruiting trip-I was barely more than a recruit myself.”

“And?” asked Toller.

Singe glanced at him. “And nothing,” he said curtly. “It was during your uncle’s command of the Frostbrand. He led the trip himself.”

Toller’s mouth clamped shut and his eyes dropped down to the ground under his horse’s hooves.

Singe grimaced. Mention of Robrand d’Deneith was all it took to shut the mouth of half of House Deneith. None of them, not even Toller, liked to be reminded of how close he had been to the old man.

And Robrand, thought Singe, would be angrier than a hunting dragonhawk if he knew I was invoking his name just to change to a subject-though he might understand, given the consequences of that particular trip.

He forced himself to relax his grip on his horse’s reins. “Drink lightly with dinner,” he advised Toller, trying to ease the tension between them. “The real challenge will come after.”

The young man took a deep breath and nodded, sitting up straight once more. Singe caught a glimpse of grateful relief in his eyes. He smiled at him. “You’ll do fine, Toller. Have confidence and take charge.”

A tall man with a shock of white hair was hustling out from the inn before they had even walked their horses up to it. His eyes darted from the crest on Toller’s jacket to the swirling, ornate hilt of the rapier that hung at Singe’s side. The Aundairian turned his smile on him. “You have rooms?” he asked. “And dinner?”

“Yes, good master! Of course!” The man practically fell over as he bowed. “Welcome, welcome! My name is Sandar.” He spun around and bellowed. “Thul! Thul!”

A sleepy-looking boy poked his head out from the stables. Sandar gestured urgently for him to come forward. Singe swung his leg over his horse’s rump and dismounted before the innkeeper could injure himself in his eagerness to serve. “We’re not in any rush, Sandar,” he said warmly. “Take your time!”

Sandar looked relieved. “Tak, master! That’s kind of you. We don’t see many of the dragonmarked in these parts, and to have two …”

“Only one, Sandar. I just work for House Deneith.” Singe smiled and nodded to Toller.

Sandar’s eyebrows rose so high they almost merged with his hairline and he spun around to face Toller. “Your pardon, good master!” he gasped. “I had thought your servant to be your equal!”

Singe’s indulgent smile vanished into a glower while Toller’s face lit up. “No apologies needed, Sandar,” said the young man, “it’s happened before.” He stretched so that his dragonmark-the shimmering, swirling colors of the magical pattern that marked a true heir of one of the great houses-peeked out from under the cuff of his right sleeve. Sandar’s eyes opened even wider in awe.

“Good master!” he breathed. “The best of my inn is yours!” Sandar stepped back, licked his lips, glanced from Singe to Toller, and back again, then asked, “If it wouldn’t offend you, masters, would you mind my asking what business brings you to Bull Hollow?”

“Not at all, Sandar,” Toller said as dismounted. “We’re here on a mission for House Deneith, looking for recruits for the Blademarks Guild.”

A murmur of mingled excitement and concern rippled through the watching “Mercenaries?” asked Sandar. Singe thought he finally saw a hint of caution peek through the man’s eagerness to serve. “But the war is over. Surely there’s no more need for mercenaries.”

Singe snorted. “There’s always a need for mercenaries,” he said. “Peace requires an iron fist. But I don’t suppose you felt much of the war in Bull Hollow, did you?”

“No, master,” Sandar admitted. “So far out from the center of the Five Nations, it barely touched us. We do have a veteran living in the Hollow-a great man, though not from here originally-but he doesn’t like to talk much about the war.”

“I understand.”

Toller grinned. “We’ll let the veterans swap war stories between themselves tonight, Sandar. Let’s start with food.” He threw a mischievous glance over his shoulder as Sandar led him inside. “Help the stable boy with the horses … Lieutenant Bayard.”

Singe glared after him, but his mouth twitched with a certain pride. “We’ll make a leader out of you yet, Toller,” he muttered under his breath.

Dandra woke to the sound of voices and the distinctive sensation of having a roof over her head for the first time in weeks. Panic wrapped around her heart and squeezed. The reflexive discipline of a month of constant dread took precedent, however. She stayed still and silent, her eyes closed and her breathing regular, as she took stock of her situation.

She was lying on a bed, rough and slightly smelly, but a bed nonetheless. She was indoors-warmth, smell, and sound trapped around her. She could hear the crackle of a fire and the murmur of voices. Dandra concentrated on the voices, trying to sort them out. Two voices, one gruff, one softer and more pleasant. Both men.

A memory returned to her. Cold rock at her back, the strange six-legged creatures stalking toward her-and two men, a human and a fierce shifter, appearing from nowhere to come to her rescue. Her own outrage and the way it had drawn energies out of her she had thought drained by exhaustion.

The powerful slap of one of the creature’s tentacles. Her impact with the rock she had chosen as her refuge. She focused her awareness on her body. To her surprise, she felt much better than she would have expected. The pains she had expected to find in her chest and in the back of her head were simply not there. The exhaustion that had all but crippled her-that was gone, too. She felt as if she had slept … for hours.

Panic’s grip tightened around her heart. Tetkashtai! she called within the darkness of her mind. Tetkashtai!

Here! Like a lantern shone along a dark corridor, a yellow-green light blossomed in her mind’s eye. The presence that was Tetkashtai swirled around her, wrapping her in a desperate embrace. Il-Yannah, Dandra. I couldn’t wake you. The human cast some kind of spell on you!

Dandra returned the mental embrace. It must have been a healing spell, she said. I feel better than I have any right to. How long have I been asleep?

I don’t know, Tetkashtai fretted. Too long! Images formed within her light. Views, seen from the perspective of someone being carried, of trees passing. The men who had come to her rescue, their faces distorted by Tetkashtai’s fear. A climb up a long slope, then back down. A rough little cabin. The range of Tetkashtai’s vision was too short to reveal anything meaningful, any landmarks in the distance, and her sense of time was disjointed. In spite of herself, Dandra swallowed. We need to get out of here.

Yes! gasped Tetkashtai. Oh, yes! Another image formed: Dandra’s hand rising, a cone of flame blasting out to envelope the men.

No! said Dandra, startled. They rescued me. I can’t do that!

Tetkashtai’s silent voice hissed, snake-like. I can. Let me! They’ll regret keeping us here….

I don’t think they’re keeping us. They’re only trying to help. She forced the image of the men burning out of her mind and replaced it with another of them giving her directions, food, perhaps blankets. They may be willing to help us more!

Tetkashtai coiled in on herself. All right, she said. But don’t tell them anything! And if they can’t help us, we run-immediately!

Dandra bent her thoughts into a shape of obedience, the mental equivalent of a nod. Yes, Tetkashtai.

She opened her eyes and turned her head. “Hello?” she said.

It had been days at least since she had last spoken aloud. Her voice came out rough and cracking. It got the men’s attention, though. They had been standing beside the fire. At the sound of her voice, they turned sharply. The shifter reacted as an animal would, arching his back and leaning onto the balls of his feet, ready either to fight or to run. The human, however, hurried directly to her. There was an earthenware pitcher on a small table beside the bed. He poured clear water into a cup and offered it to her.

“Here,” he said kindly. “Drink.” He settled on the bed and helped her as she sat up. The water was cool and good. She swallowed it with a gratitude that surprised her. The man poured her more. “Are you all right?”

She nodded and water splashed down her chin. She felt Tetkashtai draw back in slight disgust, but the man just smiled. He was ruggedly handsome under the beard and somewhat younger than she had expected-there was an air of responsibility to him that made him seem older. A simple collar of polished black stones etched with strange symbols and strung on a leather cord hung around his neck.

“My name is Adolan. This is Geth.” He gestured to the shifter as Geth moved in closer, his wide eyes shining in the firelight. The shirt that the shifter wore was torn into rags and stained with blood. Through the gaping fabric she could see that his compact body was knotted with muscle and thick with dark hair. He carried no visible wounds-maybe Adolan had used healing magic on him as well-but old scars made a map of bald streaks on his hairy skin.

“Dandra,” she answered, gulping past the water. She set the cup aside and looked at both Adolan and Geth. “You saved me from those-”

“Displacer beasts,” grunted Geth.

“-displacer beasts.” Dandra bent her head and pressed her hands together. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” said Adolan. He tried awkwardly to imitate her gesture, then gave up. “Geth says you’re a kalashtar.” She nodded and he smiled. “I’ve never met a member of your race before.”

Enough pleasantries! snapped Tetkashtai. Find out what we need to know-

As the presence spoke, Dandra saw Adolan frown slightly. His eyes drifted down to the bronze-wrapped crystal that hung around her neck.

Tetkashtai! she hissed urgently, but the presence had seen the same thing. Her silent voice broke off sharply and her light shrank back in alarm. Her retreat left Dandra feeling slightly empty.

“That’s an interesting crystal you wear,” said Adolan. “I almost feel as if it’s alive.”

“In a way,” Dandra answered as casually as she could manage, “it is. It’s a psicrystal. For a psion, a psicrystal is an aid and a companion.”

Adolan’s frown deepened in confusion. “What’s a psion?”

“A kalashtar wizard,” growled Geth. “Which would make this psicrystal like a wizard’s familiar.” He gave Dandra a suspicious look. “I told you kalashtar had strange powers, Adolan.”

“No stranger than magic,” Dandra said defensively.

Adolan held out his hands. “Easy,” he said. “I’m sorry, Dandra. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He glanced at Geth. “You should find the elders and let them know that the displacer beasts are dead.”

The shifter darted a narrow glance at Dandra, but nodded. “They’ll all likely be at Sandar’s, and I could use a tankard.”

He turned away and shrugged out of his shirt. He flung it into a corner and dug another out of a big chest that stood against the wall, pulling it on over broad shoulders. His big hand picked up one of a pair of fighting axes that stood by the chest and slipped it through a loop on his belt. For a moment, his eyes met Adolan’s. The human gave a tiny nod, then looked to Dandra.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, and followed Geth to the door of the cabin. When he opened it, Dandra’s eyes went wide in alarm.

The little slice of the world outside was dark. Tetkashtai, it’s night!

The presence let out the barest spark of yellow-green light. Il-Yannah, she whispered. We need to go.

Dandra glanced around the cabin. Her spear was leaning against the foot of the bed. Her sandals were on the floor at the bedside. A cupboard beside the fireplace stood open, revealing a loaf of bread and what looked like cheese. Her stomach growled. Food would be nice, but she had mastered the means of sustaining her body with mental energy alone. A blanket on the other hand-her fingers bunched into the rough, scratchy coverings on the bed …

Adolan stepped back into the cabin, closing the door behind him and smiling at her. Dandra forced her fingers to relax and smiled back at him.

In her mind’s eye, Tetkashtai formed the image of a flame. Dandra answered with a reluctant mental nod.

“I don’t trust her,” Geth murmured as Adolan followed him out into the gathering night.

“I understand,” Adolan whispered back. The druid glanced back through the door and into the cabin. His eyes narrowed.

“There’s something about her-”

“Yes,” Geth growled. “Something I don’t trust!”

Adolan shook his head. “No. Something haunted. There’s something she’s keeping from us. I’ll see if I can find out what it is. She may need our help.”

Geth looked up to the skies overhead. The moons were rising, and the Ring of Siberys was visible in the southern sky, a shining, milky band. He pointed at it. “There’s the Ring,” he said. “You can stop searching mud puddles anytime.”

“If she’s trouble, I’ll send Breek to fetch you,” Adolan said with a smile. He turned for the door, then glanced over his shoulder. “Good hunting today, Geth.”

Geth gave him back a smile that exposed just the tips of his teeth. “Good hunting, Ado.”

Adolan stepped back into the cabin and closed the door behind him. The swath of light that had illuminated the patchy grass in front of the cabin vanished. For a moment, the night was dark, but as Geth’s eyes adjusted, it seemed to grow steadily brighter-another legacy of his lycanthrope ancestors. From a high perch on the roof of the cabin, Breek gave a benevolent squawk as Geth crossed the little clearing and turned down the short path that led into Bull Hollow. A half-dozen paths converged at the cabin. The folk of the valley lived close to the land and the forest and carried great respect for Adolan. More than just the paths of Bull Hollow came together at the cabin. Even if Adolan hadn’t been a druid, Geth suspected that he would have found himself at the heart of the community. He was pleasant and personable, naturally charismatic, trusting, patient-Geth’s opposite in many ways.

Like the way he trusted Dandra. Maybe Adolan was right, Geth thought as he walked, maybe Dandra did need their help. Maybe …

Maybe seeing her was too much of a reminder of the last time he had seen kalashtar. In Rekkenmark. Just before Narath.

The memory was like picking at a scabbed over wound-as soon as he thought about it, all of the pain came flooding back. All of the bloodshed. All of the fire. All of the screaming.

Geth stopped for a moment and clenched his jaw tight. The great war, the Last War that had consumed the kingdoms of Khorvaire and lured a young shifter away from the Eldeen Reaches with promises of glory and adventure, had ended officially two autumns past. The news had reached Bull Hollow with a wandering tinker the following spring. But for him, the war had come to an end nine years ago. In his mind, Geth saw the snows of northern Karrnath, their clean white stained red with blood and dusted black with ash …

He choked on his breath and forced the memories away, burying them behind other memories. A return to the Eldeen Reaches after two years of wandering Khorvaire like a ghost. His first glimpse of a certain valley, at the very end of the Eldeen itself, caught in the green of spring. His first encounter with Adolan.

Geth opened his eyes again and looked around at the scattered buildings, visible through the trees, of Bull Hollow. The lively noise of Sandar’s tavern drifted on the air all the way from the common. Seven years in Bull Hollow, he thought, as long a time as I was away from the Eldeen before.

Not that all of those years had been easy. Virtually all of the other races that inhabited Khorvaire had an instinctive mistrust of shifters-a less than desirable part of the lycanthropic heritage. Even in the Eldeen, where shifters were more common than anywhere else on the continent, they tended to form their own tribes and communities. The humans of Bull Hollow weren’t that much different than any other members of their race. With Adolan to speak for him, though, Geth had at least had a chance and Bull Hollow had come to accept, and even respect, him. He had more than enough good memories to blot out the bad ones.

Geth took another breath-a deep, confident one-and started walking again. When he stepped out of the trees and onto the common, his face was still grim, but his heart was lighter.

And at least the people of Bull Hollow were used to seeing him with a grim face. As he walked up to Sandar’s inn, a cluster of men who had brought their drinking out into the open air hailed him. “Geth! How was your hunting?”

Geth forced his face to soften a little more and gave the men a restrained smile-one that didn’t show all of his teeth. “Good hunting!” he called back with a lightness he didn’t quite feel. “I have news for Sandar and the other elders. The beasts are dead!”

The men cheered and raised their tankards and mugs. “You’ll find the elders inside,” one man told him, “but if you want to talk to Sandar, you’ll have to catch him on the run. He has guests!”

Geth’s eyebrows rose. “Guests? Travelers?”

“Well, they’re not from around here, are they? If they were, they’d know better!”

The cluster broke into laughter. Sandar’s serving woman, a pretty young lady named Veta, raised her nose in the air as she came out of the inn’s common room with another round of beer. “You ignore them, Geth!” she said loudly. “Our guests are proper gentlemen!”

“Veta,” said Geth, “if they were proper gentlemen, they wouldn’t be this deep in the Eldeen.”

Veta gave him a disapproving look. “Well, they aren’t like any of the men around Bull Hollow, I can tell you that. They’re from a dragonmarked house-the younger one was wearing a crest and all! And the older one …” She sighed as she passed a tankard to Geth. “Oh, he was the finest looking man you’ve ever seen! Tall and lean, with beautiful blond hair and just a patch of a beard on his chin. And he carried himself so well!”

The shifter grunted. “Anyone can stand up straight, Veta, and there are more crests than the ones that great houses use.”

“They’re gentlemen for true, Geth!” Veta simpered. She turned to go back into the common room.

“Gentlemen or not,” said Geth, “I hope they’re peaceful. We don’t need more trouble.” He could hear a growing buzz from inside the common room. Word of the displacer beasts’ deaths was beginning to circulate. People would be eager for the story. Taking a deep breath, he stepped through the door.

A cheer so loud it would have shaken leaves from a tree greeted him. The inn’s patrons stood, roaring their approval. Sandar raised his arms high. “The hero of Bull Hollow!” he called. Geth turned, nodding with embarrassment as he acknowledged their praise.

At a table toward the back of the room, standing along with everyone else, were the two men who could only be Veta’s gentlemen travelers. Geth had to admit that they did cut much more impressive figures than most visitors to Bull Hollow. The younger of the two was cheering along with the Hollowers, the pattern of a dragonmark flashing on his forearm.

The other man, blond and about the same age as Geth himself, was staring at him with stinging fury on his face. Geth met his gaze with a curious glance.

It took a moment for him to recognize the face behind the chin-patch beard and the burning rage. After seven years of peace in Bull Hollow, he had let his guard down. He’d forgotten what it was like to be pursued. He’d forgotten that he was being hunted.

“Geth!” the bearded man bellowed. His rapier cleared its scabbard in a single smooth motion. Sandar’s patrons froze, their cheers silenced by surprise. “Geth, you bastard traitor!”

For a moment, Geth froze, too. The hair on his arms and the back of his neck rose sharply. His lips pulled back from his teeth.

Then the hero of Bull Hollow dropped his tankard and spun around, leaping for the inn door and the common beyond. There was a crash behind him and thundering footsteps. Shouts of alarm. Singe’s shouts of anger. A voice he didn’t know commanding Singe to stand down. Sandar’s voice demanding that he put away his sword.

Geth ran as fast as he could, racing across the common. Singe’s rapier was only as effective as his reach. But it wasn’t the blond man’s only weapon. Geth kept his eyes on the trees ahead.

Too late. Behind him, he heard Singe call out a simmering, sizzling word of power.

A dozen paces ahead, flame blossomed in the night, swirling into a sphere of seething orange fire that was almost as tall as the shifter. Geth skidded to a stop, his feet digging up strips of sod, then tried to dart around the sphere. The sphere rolled over on itself, moving to block him. He feinted left, then darted right. The fiery sphere moved with him, then rolled closer. Geth was forced to leap back or be burned.

“Geth!” Singe called.

The shifter whirled and dropped into a crouch, his sharp teeth bared and his pointed ears back like a cornered animal. His hand darted to his belt, groping for his axe. Singe was trotting across the common, his right hand holding his rapier, his left crooked in the arcane gesture that controlled the flaming sphere. He stopped a cautious distance away.

The two men faced each other in silence in the flickering, smoky light.

“Singe! Singe! Lieutenant Bayard!” The younger man who had been with Singe in the inn came dashing from the direction of the inn, his jacket hanging open, his sword already drawn. Behind him, the folk of Bull Hollow were gathering. Their voices were animated and alarmed. Some were jogging across the common, clubs and daggers in their hands. The young man’s face was pale. “Have you lost your mind?” he gasped. “What are you doing?”

“Toller,” Singe said tightly, “I spent four years trying to track this bastard down. I only came back to the Blademarks because I thought I’d never find him.”

The wizard was cut off by the arrival of a number of the men of the Hollow, Sandar in their lead. The white-haired innkeeper carried a surprisingly large mace in one hand. “Good master,” he said to Singe, “I’d ask you to lower your weapon and … uhhh …” He glanced at the fire burning behind Geth. “Dismiss whatever magic you command.”

Singe didn’t take his eyes off Geth. “They don’t know, do they?” he asked.

If it was possible, Geth’s lips peeled back even further. Singe took a step closer, his left hand gesturing. The sphere of fire began to roll forward …

The deep bellow that echoed across the common-across the entire valley-seemed to shake the very air itself. It sounded like the cry of some enormous wounded animal, caught in unimaginable pain. Around Singe, the people of Bull Hollow gasped. Toller yelped in fear. Geth’s own gut clenched in sudden alarm.

Singe’s hand trembled. He looked up into the night. “What was that-?”

In the second that the wizard’s gaze was turned away, Geth’s muscular frame uncoiled. His arm swung back and then snapped forward, sending his axe spinning through the air. Singe choked and flung himself down and backward.

It was a terrible throw, awkward and haphazardly aimed. Geth could see recognition of that flicker in Singe’s eyes even as he dropped. The axe missed him by a good five feet, embedding its blade deep in the ground of the common. Geth didn’t wait to see his reaction. He turned and darted around the resting ball of fire, putting it between him and Singe and hurling himself toward the woods once more.

“No!” howled Singe. There was another gasp from the folk of Bull Hollow. Geth glanced back over his shoulder in time to see the wizard charging after him, not around the fiery sphere, but through it.

He emerged from the flame without even a scorch mark on him. A ring on his finger shone with a sudden, hungry light.

But the trees of the forest were ahead. Geth flung himself into them as a second bellow rolled through the night.

“Adolan,” asked Dandra, “where is Bull Hollow?”

We don’t have time for this, Tetkashtai hissed.

We need directions, Dandra replied.

Once again, a frown flickered across Adolan’s face, as if he was somehow aware of the silent communication. The druid crossed the cabin from the door to the open cupboard, reached in and took out the bread and cheese Dandra had glimpsed. “Just down the path,” he answered. “It’s very close.”

“No, I mean where is it in relation to other places. Like Yrlag in the Shadow Marches, for instance.”

“Yrlag?” Adolan turned and looked at her. His eyes narrowed. “Yrlag is a week and half’s travel to the southwest. We’re in the west of the Eldeen Reaches.”

You came too far! I told you we had missed Yrlag!

Shut up, Tetkashtai! Dandra gave Adolan an embarrassed smile. “I’m lost,” she said. “I was traveling from Yrlag to-” she searched her memory hastily for the name of a town or city in the Eldeen Reaches. “-Erlaskar.”

Adolan’s eyes didn’t shift. “Through the Twilight Domain and the Gloaming?”

“Well, not through them, obviously,” Dandra lied.

She had no idea what either place was, but the man’s voice made them sound dangerous. Inside her mind Tetkashtai was tensed like over-wound clockwork, but she forced herself to remain calm as Adolan took a knife from the cupboard as well. He cut big pieces of bread and cheese, setting them on a grill by the fire to toast, then turned back to put plates out on a rough table. He worked without saying anything, though Dandra had the sense that he was only looking for the right moment.

Finally she broke the silence before he could. “Do you have a map of the Eldeen Reaches, Adolan?”

“A map?” He turned and looked at her.

Dandra swallowed hard. His eyes were sharp, but also compassionate.

When the druid spoke again, his voice was soft and cautious. “You’re not going to Erlaskar, are you, Dandra?”

Tetkashtai gave another silent hiss, but to her own surprise, Dandra shook her head. “No,” she murmured.

“I didn’t think so.” Adolan gestured to the table and said, “Sit down. Eat something.”

“I can’t,” she told him. “I have to go.”

Adolan’s eyebrows rose. “Go? Go where? Dandra, it’s dark.”

“I know. I slept too long.” She pushed herself up off the bed. “Show me the map,” she said. “Please.”

He nodded slowly. “All right,” he said, crossing back to the cupboard. “Dandra, if you need help, all you have to do-”

Before he could say anything more, the air shivered under a deep bellow. It came from outside the cabin but not, Dandra thought, from somewhere close by. Adolan spun at the sound, his feet striking the grill and sending the bread and cheese sliding into the fire. He barely seemed to notice, instead leaping across the cabin and wrenching open the door. Dandra, eyes wide, turned to follow him as he leaned out into the darkness, twisted around to look up, and whistled through his clenched teeth. “Breek!” he called. “Breek! Find Geth!”

There was a squawk from up on the cabin’s roof and the sound of a bird launching itself into the night. Adolan pulled himself back inside and turned back to her. Any compassion in his eyes was gone, replaced by a harsh urgency. “There’s trouble,” he said, reaching for a spear, longer and heavier than her own, that stood by the door. “Something unnatural has entered the valley. You’ll have to stay-”

They’re here. Tetkashtai’s voice was sharp-and frantic. Dandra, they’re here! We need to run!

I know. Dandra looked at Adolan as another bellow rumbled in the darkness. “I’m sorry,” she said.

She reached out to Tetkashtai through the connection that bound them together, drawing the presence close. As if she had turned a key in a lock, she felt power stir within her. With Tetkashtai’s yellow-green light surrounding her, she drew on that power, shaping it with a disciplined will. The droning, disembodied chorus of whitefire swelled in her ears. Adolan’s eyes went wide as the sound throbbed against his ears as well. With a flick of thought, Dandra gave the whitefire form.

Pale flames flared around Adolan. They lasted only an instant, but in that instant his mouth opened in a scream that never came out. He slumped to the cabin floor, stunned by the sudden, shocking heat, little flames licking at his clothes. Dandra focused her will and the whitefire chorus changed in pitch as another whisper of power snuffed the flickering flames.

Snatching up her spear, she fled into the night, running once again.