by Aldrea Alien
Dylan folded his arms. “I’ve no intentions of letting myself get killed, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“And glad I am to hear it. Travelling alongside someone with a death wish tends to complicate matters.” The way the man spoke, it sounded like he’d some experience with such a scenario. Not all those who’d fled the tower would’ve returned quietly.
His gaze dropped to the array of weaponry the man sported as well as his sword. Daggers, three of them, and several throwing knives peeked out from the back of his belt. His guardian had been very explicit on what happened to those who tried to escape a hound’s clutches. “Have you ever—?”
“There you two are!” Marin bellowed.
Dylan twisted where he sat in time to witness all three women entering their campsite. Relief unravelled the knot he didn’t realise he’d been harbouring in his stomach until now. A part of him had been anxious in whether the trio would be able to find them, leaving him alone with the hound.
Marin held up her arm. A rabbit swung from her hand. “Found dinner. Or breakfast, take your pick.” She threw the carcass before the fire and jerked a thumb at Katarina. “She damn near tripped over the silly thing.”
He eyed both the hunter and the hedgewitch. Unlike Authril, there didn’t seem to be any obvious injuries. He could’ve sworn Marin had been limping earlier. Hard to tell now the woman was still. She didn’t look to favour either leg. “Are either of you hurt?”
Katarina brushed back a lock of brown hair from her forehead, tucking it back into the braid at her temple. Most of the loops had loosened during the fight, making a mess of both bun and braids. “We’ve a few scrapes and bruises between us.”
“I’d be more than willing to—”
The dwarf held up her hand. “There’s no need to use your healing talents. I know it takes more out of spellsters than they care to admit.”
“Speak for yourself,” Marin said as she plonked next to him. One leg of her trousers twisted in a manner he didn’t recall it being capable of prior to entering Toptower. She pulled back the soft leather, revealing a long gash down her calf. “It’s stopped bleeding, but—”
Dylan wordlessly placed his hand on her bare shin. The cut wasn’t too deep, which had helped in the clotting process and aided him in boosting the woman’s natural healing.
The hunter wrinkled her nose, her lips warping into a grimace as she tried to remain still. “Kind of tingles, doesn’t it? Like needles all over your leg.” She stretched her leg before the fire once he withdrew his magic, brushing off the congealed blood and examining the peachy-pink scar beneath. “Almost like it never happened, huh?”
Dylan shrugged. “I could heal it further, if you want.” Typically, once the wound had reached the point of a scar, there wasn’t much left to do. Pushing the healing process that little bit more would allow the new skin to darken, but it was a superficial matter by then.
“It’s fine, thank you.” Crossing her legs beneath her, she crinkled her eyes at him. “It’s good to see you’re looking less green, too.”
“Sword fighting’s a little more… gruesome than I imagined,” he admitted, ducking his head to whisper the words.
“That’s why I use a bow. Less bits flying everywhere, especially in the face. Get an arrow through someone’s head or a straight shot to the heart and—” She flopped back onto the leaf-ridden ground. “They’re not getting up. Kind of like your magic.”
“I guess.” Arrows were still quite messy and, although Marin seemed to have quite a bit more skill than the other archers he’d witnessed, they were less efficient than his magic at killing cleanly.
“Hey,” the hunter sat up and nudged his knee with an elbow. “You can help me solve a little debate us women were having earlier.”
His curiosity tweaked, he raised a brow in query at her.
“You can light whatever you want on fire, right?”
Dylan laughed. It was going to be one of those sort of debates, was it? He’d been wondering how long it would take before someone started enquiring as to the extent of his abilities. “That is… somewhat true. There are limits. Using your fire example, if it’s not something that’ll burn under a normal flame, then I can’t set it alight.”
“How does it all work? Like fire. How do you actually make things burn?”
He grinned. “Well, it…” Chuckling to himself, he ran his fingers through his hair. It’d been so longer since his tutors had to teach him the finer points of the skill. “It seems I’ve forgotten the nuances. But it’s not so much as conjuring fire as it involves manipulating the temperature in the air around the object you want to burn.”
“And you forgot how you’re doing that? How could you forget?”
“Do you remember how people taught you to walk? Or speak?” He’d been an early bloomer, like most of those signalled out for military training. “Spellsters—the ones born in the tower, at least—are able to use magic at a very young age. Our first attempt is often a shield when we’re just babies, it hinges on our survival defence.”
“You could do magic as a baby?”
He nodded. “Only a shield, though, and only for a short time.” Pulses generally came next, weak ones that expended more effort than a toddler could give. “I lit my first flame when I was four years old. Fire is often the first conscious use of magic.” Dylan flicked his wrist as a small fireball formed in his cupped palm. “It’s easy. Brief.” He blew on the fireball, extinguishing it. “I can manipulate it like you would do your breath. Concentrating too hard on it makes things more difficult, so you learn to trust your instincts.”
“But if I asked, you could set fire to…” The woman twisted her head every which way, taking in their surroundings. “That?” She pointed to the leafless skeleton of a nearby bush hovering just on the edge of the encroaching shadows of night. “Just—” She clicked her fingers and spread her hands wide. “Whoosh!”
“I’d be more inclined to ask you why you wanted me to set the dead bush on fire, but yes, I could do it like that.” He mimicked her actions.
“Except you will not,” Tracker said. “Stop encouraging the woman.”
Marin stuck her tongue out at the hound. “Why don’t you use fire when we’re fighting? It’s always lightning or…” She waved her hands in a pushing motion.
“Safety, mostly.” The guardians were always very clear on them remaining mindful of their surroundings. Of being sure where an ally was in relation to an enemy. Basic training and he’d forgotten that in the very first fight where lives were taken. “Lightning goes to ground and stops when I want. Any pulses through the air last only as long as there’s energy to drive them.”
He plucked a twig from the pile. With the snap of his fingers, he conjured a single flame to dance on the tip of his thumb, which he then transferred to the twig. “Once magical fire meets fuel, then it’s merely fire and just as unpredictable.”
The hunter eyed the burning twig. “But you could put it out whenever you wanted.”
Dylan enclosed the flame in a small dense shield, holding it there until smoke filled the bubble. “Yes.” He threw the twig into the fire. “But if I was to get knocked out like I did the first time I fought…” Even magically created fire couldn’t tell friend from foe. He’d just been lucky the person he attacked at the main camp when he’d been blinded by pain had been an enemy.
Tracker settled on the opposite side of the campfire. “You allowed an enemy close enough to you to let them knock you out? Are you certain they sent you to the army to fight and not, I do not know, play physician?”
Before Dylan could open his mouth, Authril said, “There are no healers in the army, only weapons.”
Dylan rubbed at his cheek, the one the lieutenant had struck on his first day there. It had stopped stinging by the second day and the bruising had vanished once the collar broke, but he could still feel it, still taste the bitter tang of his blood.
You’re a weapon. The man’s words echoed in
his mind. Nothing but a sword with a big mouth.
Tracker shook his head. “I distinctly recall seeing him mend your side, my dear woman. Clearly, the lack of healers in the army ranks cannot be true.”
“I wasn’t brought to the army to heal people,” Dylan whispered. “I’m meant to be a sword, not a scalpel.” If he’d been a little more invested in playing that role then maybe he might’ve been able to…
He sighed. It was best not to wander down that path again lest he not find his way back a second time.
Feeling watched, he lifted his gaze to find Tracker staring at him, a peculiar expression drawing the man’s face tight. Pity? It was there only for an instant. He could’ve sworn he’d seen right, although he couldn’t imagine why a hound would pity him.
All at once, the man leapt to his feet and retrieved one of the longer branches from the fire. “Since you are all here. I think I shall finish removing this blood before it permanently adheres to my skin.” He eyed Dylan, tipping his head to one side. “Normally, I am not meant to leave a spellster’s side once they are found, but I can trust you to not attempt vanishing into the undergrowth once I am out of sight, yes?”
“Unique circumstances, right?” His gaze turned to the darkness encroaching on the forest. Already, much of the area beneath the canopies was in shadow. Yet, even in the daytime, a man could get lost. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” The safest way to reach the tower was at the hound’s side. He’d be a fool to leave it and invite more trouble.
The sun hadn’t quite broken the canopy as Dylan made his way through the trees to the pond they’d found yesterday. They’d abandoned the road after the attack, opting to follow the stream until it led here. It was a short distance from camp. Marin’s insistence that they didn’t sleep next to the body of water puzzled him, but he supposed the hunter knew how to deal with these matters.
Try as he might, he couldn’t sleep. A few days of trekking through the forest and that moment when the bandits chose to attack just kept running through his head. Whenever he closed his eyes, those broken, bleeding bodies sprawled across the clearing haunted him. He needed calm, peace.
With the early-morning sun free from treetops and leaves, it was lighter where the pond lay. Stalks of lavender speckled the grass near the shallow end of the pond. He strolled through them, smiling as the scent from the bruised flowers drifted on the breeze. It was like coming home.
There’d always been lavender around the tower. Patches of the stuff used to spring up in the herb gardens no matter what they did and, in his youth, Tricia would sprinkle the underside of his pillow with dried petals. He’d long since associated the woodsy, floral smell with the wild.
Giving no thought to the motions, he plucked a handful of the sprigs and twined the stalks into a small circle. Weaving flowers was an old elven tradition with courting couples making elaborate garlands for their prospective partner. Nestria had showed him the technique several years ago. She’d then spent the rest of their thirteenth summer sulking when he surpassed her crude attempts.
Donning the crown of lavender, his gaze slid between the pond and the way back to camp. Unlike the women, who carried spare garments—courtesy of Marin—his clothes consisted of what he currently wore and, although no one said anything, he rather thought it was past time for them to be a little more on the cleaner side.
It’d been years since he’d last had to do his own laundry—such activity was reserved for the tower servants and unruly teenaged spellsters—but he remembered how well enough. And whilst he hadn’t access to one of the massive copper basins or lye to deal with any stains, he was more than capable of heating a section of the pond for his use.
Dylan chucked his leather belt to one side and quickly stripped off his robe. If he was to do this, then it was best done before anyone else wandered this way. He studied the fabric. The patch was holding up so far and the stitching on the hem showed no sign of fraying. All things considered, the robe didn’t look too dirty. But how long would it be before he found another opportunity like this?
He picked an area where the incline wasn’t too shallow and knelt at the pond’s edge. Frigid water met his fingers as he dipped his robe. Shuddering, Dylan poured heat through his hands until steam rose from this small section of the pond.
The water lapped at his knees whilst he scrubbed at the robe the best he could, soaking his undertunic. Might as well get it all over with. He shrugged out of the second layer of clothing. He’d see to his smallclothes once they reached Oldmarsh, when he could be certain that no one would happen upon him.
He continued with his task, the water clouding around his hands. Dylan hummed as he worked, a little tune his guardian used to sing him to sleep with. He used to know all the words. Now they were a haze of knights and—had it been stars?—something else he couldn’t quite recall. He’d barely listened to much beyond the melody.
Eventually, both his undertunic and robe were clean. Or at least, as much as they could hope to get outside of a proper laundering. Standing, he squeezed the excess water from the robe before shaking it out and setting his magic to work on drying it. In the hot air surrounding him, the scent of lavender thickened.
He breathed deep, growing giddy on the fumes, and stretched. How he’d missed the scent. He would have to remember to pick a few of the sprigs later to carry with him. It might even help ease the bad dreams.
His ears had grown tired of the old lullaby and, as he spun about with the drying robe twirling along with him, he switched to the drone of a chant taught in the temple, one that the priests would often call upon him to lead during prayer.
The tale woven by the lyrics spoke of a departed lover drifting on the river, denying the Seven Sisters’ judgement as they lingered for their heart.
His voice started off as a mumble, but soon rose to its limits as he belted out the crescendo. Picking up the sleeves of his robe as if it were a partner, he danced in the middle of the lavender patch with the scent of crushed flowers invading his nostrils. His singing drifted on the air, all alone for once in a very long time.
It wasn’t an entirely happy tale. Years passed in the mortal realm whilst the lover sat in silence. Boats bearing the lovers of other hearts would come and go, but never the desired one. And yet, there was a sort of wistful delight in waiting, for as long as they stayed, as long as they needn’t move on, their heart still lived.
But even the longest life must come to an end and in the mortal lands, people battled. There, the lover’s heart faltered and—
Dylan suddenly became aware that his voice wasn’t the only one shaping the song. He spun, finding the hound leaning against a tree.
Tracker smiled. “Oh, do not stop on my account.”
“I…” he squeaked. His gaze dropped to the now-clean robe he clutched to his chest, his face burning furiously. “I didn’t even hear you approach.” He’d been so caught up in just being free to do as he pleased with the morning that he hadn’t considered anyone hearing him.
“That is the point of sneaking, yes? I hope you will forgive me for the intrusion, but I heard you singing from the camp and… Well, you have quite a high pitch. I thought it one of the women at first, which would have been quite strange as they were all still abed.” The man grinned. “Then I considered we had, perchance, happened upon a young maiden.”
And that makes me feel so much better. Dylan eyed his undertunic. It sat in a wet lump near the water.
“So, dear man, you do your own laundry and sing? The women must be lining up to have a piece of you.” The elf stood right next to him, one russet brow raised. “However, I wonder…” He slowly reached up and removed the crown of lavender sprigs from Dylan’s head. “Do you often dance about in your smallclothes?”
The revelation that he was all but naked in the man’s presence hit him. Dylan hastened to don his robe. The rest could wait until later.
Tracker hummed as he examined the woven circlet, his generous mouth flattening. “And y
ou have gone so very silent. I have offended you in some way, yes?” Those honey-coloured eyes flicked up, seemingly examining him. “If so, then it was unintentional. I was not even aware a man could sing so high. It was pleasant to listen to, if a little wobbly and off-key in places. A rather strange choice, though. I had no idea you were so familiar with such a chant.”
Why wouldn’t he be? It wasn’t often sung, granted, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be familiar with it. “As are you.” He’d not been mistaken in the confidence behind the elf’s silken voice.
“Of course.” Tracker shrugged. “I remember the bimonthly outings to the temple as a child quite fondly. Our mistress demanded nothing less of us and it was one of the few times our carers were unable to beat us.”
Dylan froze in the act of retrieving his belt. “They… beat you?”
“Not for some years now. My training was completed quite a while back.”
“And beating you was part of your training?” He peered at the man, trying to determine the truth.
“Naturally. There a number of physical strains placed on pups. Not everyone makes it, of course.” His russet brows gained a perplexed twist. “They did not do this to you back in the tower?”
“No.” There might have been guardians who were harsh on their charges, but Tricia had never even threatened to hit him and he didn’t know of anyone who’d been treated in such a fashion.
“Truly? How bizarre.” He offered back the crown. “It is wonderful weaving you have done, by the way.”
“Thank you.” He fiddled with the circlet, picking at the buds as his face slowly warmed. He’d learnt via Sulin that not every elf was aware of their traditions. Was Tracker one of them? “We should probably return to camp. The others must be awake by now.”
“They were stirring as I came here. Marin is likely preparing breakfast and the others will be packing up the tents.” He circled Dylan, his strides fluid like a cat sizing up his prey. “However, I think… Well, we have been walking for quite some time and there was the fighting. Have you considered bathing?”
