Despite the warm breeze and the travel through a sunkissed landscape, the mood had been a quiet one, albeit not for Haran’s lack of trying. Numerous times during their journey the bard had tried to trap either of the youthful pair in a conversation in an attempt to lift their spirits, but neither ever tangled in his woven words for too long. Grief at the news of the loss of their friend still clung to them like a wet cloak, the type that would not come so easily undraped.
“I still don’t know if we should believe him,” Delryd said quietly as she walked in front of her mare, holding it by the reins. She was leading Érad who sat in its saddle down the lane of a fern-covered foxpath, surrounded by old forest. They had been traveling these past few days in and out of patches of forgotten green untouched by stonework and wild fields of flowers and brambles, deeper into the Surelian summer forests and away from roads and eyes aplenty. The miles of vineyards down the fields along the river-coast they had made sure to avoid as, according to Haran, second harvest had begun.
“Believe him? About what?” Érad replied drowsily.
“About Adhern, I mean.” Delryd continued, watching the bard from a distance up ahead. The bard sat astride his own mount, gently lowering it along a slope leading into yet more thick coniferous woodland up ahead of the pair. He was hard to miss, his loudly colorful attire a dangerous eyesore when she herself had been taught to never stand out amidst the subdued greens of nature.
Delryd had protested like an obstinate goat when Haran had first posited the idea of joint travel that morning, stating that he was willing to serve as their guide as an offer of recompense considering the harm he had inflicted on her friend, but ultimately it hadn’t been the bard’s remorseful rhetoric that had won Delryd over. Her hand ran across her misangled nose as she glanced back up at Érad, bobbling astride the horse with barely clinging consciousness.
He is getting worse.
They could no longer have risked proximity to the paved roads in Érad’s current condition and, although Delryd knew well the way of the wild, she knew not the lay of the local land. So close to the southern cities, the threat of discovery by ranging hunters or even wildland patrols was a pressing one, meaning they could also not have afforded to remain in one place long enough for Érad to recover.
So, weighed down with these worries, Delryd had seen no other choice than to agree to the bard’s suggestion to pose as their guide, but every night since, doubts of disquiet had begun to gnaw at the back of her mind like a lichen, growing off of her concern. Poisonous animals showed off their threat with colors of dangerous vibrancy and the girl couldn’t shake the disconcerting feeling that the colorful attire the bard wore served a similar purpose.
Another long look back at her friend, hunched forward in his saddle and struggling to stay upright, was enough to convince her of her wrong’s right. It wasn’t just the bard she was losing sleep over: her friend had been saying some very, very strange things in times of barely-quiet and so she had been left choiceless, resigned to rely on the wanting merits of a wandering stranger.
Delryd let out a deep sigh.
“Any ground is good for an acorn already falling,” she muttered to herself.
“Hrmmh?” murmured Érad.
“Nothing,” said Delryd as she tightened the grip on the reins, preparing to follow the bard’s descending path down the hill. “Mind your seat. It’s a rough slant.”
**
They had traveled throughout most of the day and evening, venturing deeper into the forest and away from ways worn by footfalls belonging to the civilized. Haran was busying himself setting up their small camp within a copse of tightly knotted trees circling around a few scattered stumps in their center, with most of the felled trunks already clad in thick layers of grown green. Their two horses he had set on grazing on a few nearby patches of thick clover, while Érad was bundled up tight in his traveling cloak, visibly struggling in a fitful sleep underneath a nearby summer tree.
“He is getting worse.” remarked Haran as he set to crafting the evening’s fire. They had spent the day venturing even deeper into the forest and away from ways worn by footfalls belonging to the civilized. Delryd didn’t bother looking up from gutting a pair of hares she caught earlier, her hands red to the wrists.
“Silence fits you better than speech, I think.” she replied dourly.
“You know, all that snark will cause your smiles to curl crooked,” Harran retorted back as he threw another branch onto the burgeoning fire, “but such wisdom eludes the youth, and you appear nothing if not young.”
Haran sat himself down on one of the trunks nearest the made fire and pinched himself some tufts of candied, dried weeds in a time-worn pipe, then lit it with flint and a modicum of effort. It flared up, emitting dark smoke that smelled of burnt sugar.
Haran watched the girl work for a while as she separated sinewy strands of muscle from tonight’s meat. He noticed that her fingers were quick, but prone to shaking: the lack of proper rest was getting to her.
“All this tongue-sharp bandying aside.” Haran said slowly as he ashed his pipe. “Érad needs a healer. A proper one I mean, not the patchwork curing you and I have been forcing upon him. Someone that knows how to actually remedy whatever is afflicting his head.”
“His head would’ve remained hale if you hadn’t ambushed us.”
Haran gave a regretful shake of his head. “I do not disavow my fault in the matter. A lamentable turn of events.”
Delryd snorted derisively, her attention focused on using her longknife to filet her hare.
“Why do you insist on using such strange speech?” she asked. “These southern words prickle the ears. I assume they mean nothing and that you merely wish to hear the sound of your own voice.”
“I assure you, most of them mean a great deal to a great many people. Alas, few of the raff that inhabit these parts possess the mental capacity to appreciate proper rhetoric.”
Delryd paused and looked up thoughtfully into the middle-distance, saying her thoughts out loud. “Perhaps they are words of magic and you use them to keep us tricked.”
Haran barked a mirthful laugh. “Magic?” he asked incredulously. “I am afraid not.”
The bard raised a boot to show off its many patchwork stitchings.
“Were that I was a sorcerer, it would assuredly make my travels far less cumbersome on my weary feet.”
“Then explain how you did it,” Delrdy suddenly demanded, finally locking eyes with Haran. The girl’s sharp features were pulled taut in a furrowed glare, her dagger raised threateningly in the bard’s direction. Rivulets of hare’s red dripped from its accusatory tip.
Haran showed no sign of feeling threatened, instead he slowly exhaled a long stream of sweet smoke, enacting a purposeful pause in which to inspect Delryd fully from the look of her matted blonde hair down to her well-worn forester’s boots. He noticed Delryd's fingers twitching ever so slightly at the strain of the grip on her longknife’s handle and a faint flush coming to her cheeks, but whether it was from anger or indignation, the bard could not tell.
“Explain to you how I did what?” he asked calmly.
“How you managed to sneak up on me and take my knife from me without noticing.”
Ah, neither anger nor indignation, rather, embarrassment. A prideful young creature, this one.
Haran waved his pipe in a small dismissive gesture. “It was merely chance, no more. I suppose I simply approached you from a fortunate angle.”
“No, you didn’t. I saw you moving towards our horses. I saw you, across the river, and a breath later you were behind me, my own knife at my throat.”
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“You err, I think, for I was lying in wait for you by your horses. It was an ambush, as you so aptly mentioned. Damelight is oft tricksome, especially after an intoxicating stay at a tavern.”
“It was not the drink,” Delryd insisted through gritted teeth, accentuating each stressed syllable with a prick of her bloodied longknife in his direction, “and it was not the Dame.”
“Then I suppose that is that.” Haran sighed lamentably and shook his head. “I tell you a truth, and you insist it is not so.”
“A truth of your own making is no truth at all.”
“Smarter men than you have spent their lives disproving that very statement, girl. What makes you think your sense of wisdom supersedes theirs?”
Tendrils of sweet smoke seeped out past the bard’s lips, causing his teeth to ache.
“Or mine,” Haran added in between long draws of his pipe.
Delryd let out a grunt of frustration. “Just tell me. How did you do it?” she asked again, her tone more insistent.
Haran considered the girl before him, running a finger along the contour of his beard in thought.
Prideful. And viciously stubborn. He glanced from sidelong in the direction of Érad, still shaking in his sleep nearby.
We play again, our game of bones and swords. Perhaps this time it will be different.
“Very well.” Haran suddenly said in a relenting tone. A flash of surprise crossed Delryd’s features, quickly replaced by a look of skepticism.
Haran held up his hand and showed the weathered state of it. “I am an old man,” he began, “and I have been one for quite some time. Time has eroded me in many ways and yet still I roam the roads despite my better judgment. I have had to learn certain,” Haran paused, searching for the proper word, “methods for how to travel with softness and care lest I find myself on the receiving end of a brokeman’s blade.”
“So it was a trick, then?”
Haran tilted his head as if mildly bemused by the question, but nodded nevertheless. “Of a sort. As I said: the light of the Dame can be tricksome, especially when she is at her full.”
“So you admit the lie.”
“I admit no such thing. You thought it magic, I tell you it is not so. It was instead a… deception. Ocular misdirection. A little bit of legerdemain with the light of the Dame.”
A flash of disgust crossed Delryd’s features. “Again these strange words with no meaning. You use them as if they are weightless.”
“And why should I not? Words are breath and breath is plentiful.” Haran replied in a lackadaisical tone. “I do not mind sharing the wealth of it.”
In immediate response, with a practiced flick of her wrist, Delryd turned her longknife back to the butchery of her second hare, her cutting more vigorous. “Breath is cheap until its price suddenly becomes unaffordable.” she said.
Haran let out a laugh, clearly amused at the veiled threat. “True. Very true. But let an old man count his riches, hmm?”
“If wind in the lungs was worth its weight in gold you would be one of the wealthiest men in Comedh, but here,” Delryd said, throwing a glance around the forest, “south of the Crown, I think you’re a man of empty promises and little else but a liar.”
“Ah, see, but that is where you are wrong.” Haran raised a wagging finger. “I have promised you nothing and I intend to keep to my word. And that, I can tell you, is certainly no lie.”
Delryd frowned. “You said you would help guide us in these lands.”
“I did.” Haran replied, sucking on his pipe. “And I will.”
“But it is not a promise?”
Haran shook his head. “I make no promises I cannot know if I am able to fulfill. Surelia is a civilized land and the royals have hunted down the last monsters centuries ago, but of monstrous men we still have plenty. Many dark things still happen on road or river here. But I tell you without deceit that I will guide you as well and as far as I am able.”
Delryd fell silent and her hands stopped their knifework. She seemed to be taking in the bard’s words, trying to grasp at their meaning. After a few moments, she just shook her head.
“Like you said: words are breath.” she said, a twinge of exhaustion creeping into her voice. “I do not trust anything that comes out of your mouth, but I’ve no choice.”
“Of course you do.” Haran protested. “I could lead you back to the borders of Ledia with relative ease.”
“No.” Delryd said sharply. We can’t go back, she thought to herself. We can’t ever go back.
“We told you where we needed to go.” Delryd continued pointedly. “That we go to find your king. You said he is to the south.”
The girl raised her head to look at the canopy above their heads. Past it, she could see that only the breadths of a hand separated the Knight and his Squire from vanishing behind the horizon.
“He is, yes.” Haran said, nodding. “He musters strength at the city of Rochecort, a large port city from which he intends to strike at Ilne.” Haran paused, then gestured offhandedly with his pipe, spreading smoke.
“A nation that holds coast by the Chalice.” he added in a helpful tone.
“I know of Ilne.” Delryd spat as she cleaned her longknife with a rag and stood up to bring her hares to the fire. Haran helpfully offered his waterskin for her to wash her hands, but the girl ignored it as she placed the meats to begin roasting.
“And I know, too, that the Chalice is where the rivers meet the glass. My question then: if your king is to the south and the place where he intends to travel to is to the east, why do you continue to lead us further west, into these wilds?”
“I told you.” Haran said as he ashed his pipe again. “The boy needs a proper healer, soon.”
In a silent response Delryd let her eyes linger on the bard’s face in inscrutable thought before she rose to her feet and hurriedly made her way to Érad. Only now did she notice what the bard had seen before her: Érad had stopped moving in his sleep. Delryd spat on her hand and used the wet of it to clean the tips of her fingers of hare’s blood before pressing them against the young man’s forehead.
“He is fevering again.” Delryd said quietly, unable to leave the concern out of her voice. “Hotter in the head than before.”
“As I said: he is getting worse. But I know of a healer who can surely help him.”
Delryd busied herself with dousing a rag with water from her own waterskin. “Is that where you’re taking us?” she asked as she applied the cloth to her friend’s head.
“I am.” Haran said affirmingly. “She lives alone and afar as she does not like the company of neither man nor beast, save for perhaps the birds of the deeper woods.”
“How far does she home from here?”
Haran scratched at his chin as he calculated the distance in his head. “Two days of travel through this deep green yet.”
“We are Comedhi; we come not from these lands and she does not know us. Why would this healer of yours bother helping us?“
“She is not from these lands either,” Haran replied after a long, thoughtful drag from his pipe. “And I would not be so certain as to proclaim that Gläffantechte will not know you. She is a creature prone to knowing things she should not.”
“Gläffantechte?” Delryd asked, somewhat taken aback. “That is no southern name.”
Haran nodded behind the thin curtain of sugar smoke. “Indeed. It is Nurelian from beyond the Crown, beyond even Comedh. She hails from the Lands of the Elk Lords. It means ‘great daughter full of flowers’.”
Delryd pursed her lips, a distrustful cast coming to her hard, Northern features. “Is she a witch?” she asked suspiciously.
“No.” Haran replied as he took the time to casually ash his pipe again. “But she is Eltr-blooded.” he added, almost as if an afterthought.
“What?” Delryd sprang to her feet in alarm, her longknife so quickly drawn anew and aimed at the bard that it surprised even him.
“I thought you said these lands were rid of monsters,” Delryd said angrily. “Why would you then want to bring us before an elf?”
Haran couldn’t help but let out another laugh, as if once again amused by the girl’s quick rise of anger. “I said that she is Eltr-blooded, not that she was a true elf,” he said. “The stuff of the elders runs barely through her veins. But it *does* run and it *does* bring her some purpose beyond the confines of mundanity.”
“Born from sickening union then!” Delryd retorted. She then spoke as if reciting a verse from memory: “The blood of monsters begets the blood of men spilled.”
Haran took a long, thoughtful drag from his pipe before replying. “Is that more wisdom come down from the mountains? I assure you, Gläffantechte is perhaps an elf-heir, but certainly no monster. I knew both the man that raised her and the woman that bore her and neither of them were much fond of elves.”
Haran motioned towards Érad. “I could take you south to the king and his crusaders if that is truly where you now wish me to take you, but I fear he will not survive the journey.”
Delryd followed the bard’s gaze to Érad still at her feet, her longknife still gripped in her hand so tight she could feel the iron beneath the leather wrapping of its handle chafing into her fingers. Her mind, her instincts, the voice of her father in her head all told her to leave, to return home and abandon their foolish quest, to run from this strange bard who was armed with words she did not know and armored in sweet smoke and knowledge of a land she was unfamiliar with. But it was her heart she ended up listening to.
Delryd gritted her teeth so hard she thought her molars would crack then took a deep breath. Her shown steel flitted back into its sheath and she straightened her stand, the tension leaving her shoulders. She gave a nod, mostly to herself, as she reached an internal decision.
“Fine,” she said. “But by my life, I swear that if Érad succumbs, I’ll reap the breath from your lungs and leave you in a grave as shallow as your word.”
“On your life.” Haran said with a new smile as he doused his pipe’s flame and stilled its smoke.
“Now what do you think about this meat?” the bard continued, turning his attention back to the fire.“It’s quite lean, do you think them cooked yet?”
Delryd watched the bard reach out for one of the hares, finding it impossible to quiet the gnawing concern in the back of her mind that she had made the wrong decision as she desperately tried to ignore the strange things Érad was whispering in his sleep with no one but her to hear.