Chapter 14
It was noon before Brythia quietly signaled them to stop with the raising of her arm. Kiliordes was glad enough for the break, though he could almost feel Brythia’s dread and her reluctance to do so. She had led them at a breakneck gallop through the villages, woods, and farmlands that comprised most of the southern portions of Lorm. They would not have been able to keep up with Brythia’s faerie horse if it were not for the spell that Findelbres placed on the other horses, though he called it merely words of encouragement. Always the druidess held the Moonsword extended before her as a divining rod to guide them. The further they traveled from the palace, the sparser grew the signs of settlement. Their route tended to avoid the more populous areas; clearly, Dowbreth had utilized the wooded byways and lonely forest roads for that precise purpose.
Brythia slid off her steed (actually it was Tolian’s horse Whisper); she nearly stumbled as her feet hit the ground. Composing herself, she led the horse to a small grassy field off the road and immediately let out a tired sigh. “Gentlemen, rest your horses,” she said.
Kiliordes dismounted immediately; after all, Kilfrie had always obeyed Brythia’s commands. He noticed that Brythia could barely stand up. He saw the dark circles around her bloodshot eyes. He had never seen her look so exhausted before.
“Yes, the horses need to rest, but so do you,” he said.
Brythia turned her weary gaze at him. So pale, so fraught with worry. Yet, through the fatigue, her eyes shown with a fierceness and determination.
“We’ll give the horses an hour,” she said flatly. “Oh, and Kiliordes, I do appreciate your concern, but we simply don’t have time for anything more.”
“Princess, um, I mean Brythia,” broke in Delorick, “I think I agree with Lord Kiliordes. You need to take some sleep, or you won’t do us any good.”
Brythia sighed and addressed Findelbres, “When do you think Dowbreth will stop for rest?”
The faerie spoke solemnly. “He may not stop today, or tomorrow. If he is mounted on his own faerie warhorse as I believe, we will be hard pressed to catch him, even if we do not rest at all.”
“But surely, he would have to stop sometime for Tolian...” Kiliordes stopped himself. Brythia flinched noticeably as he pronounced Tolian’s name.
Once again the faerie spoke in an uncharacteristically subdued manner, “I can vouch that Tolian can survive for at least three weeks without food or water. She did so when she was buried under the palace last year.”
Pagyrus, the pilgrim, who had been a silent observer of the conversation, now spoke. “You know, if she was merely drugged like the rest of us, I wouldn’t be surprised to see the Princess walking back this way, carrying that rogue of a faerie on her shoulder.”
Did Kiliordes see hope flash now in the druidess’ eyes?
“Yes, that would almost seem likely,” agreed Findelbres, “But I know Dowbreth too well. He is always well prepared. I’m sorry to say that if Tolian could have freed herself, she would have already done so.”
“Yes, she would have,” murmured Brythia.
“But, I think the point is how long can we afford to rest, is it not?” asked the faerie. “And in what condition we’ll be in when we catch up to them. The point, which Pagyrus brings up about Tolian, may afford us some hope. If Dowbreth has found a way to somehow restrain or diminish the Goddess’ powers, then he may well be required to stop more regularly to provide her with sustenance, etc. That should give us some hope.
“Also, Delorick, Kiliordes and Pagyrus, I know, have only slept the few hours our foe’s drug induced. They need rest, at least a couple more hours to be of any use to you.” He directed this at Brythia.
“And what of you, friend faerie? You have slept the same short nap as we have,” pointed out Delorick.
“Neither Dowbreth nor I need take sleep in your realm, at least, not regularly,” he answered. “But, what of our leader, when did you get any real sleep, Brythia?”
“I honestly don’t know the last time I have slept, though I did eat something earlier,” she admitted.
“What do you mean?” asked Pagyrus. “Surely you slept sometime yesterday or so?”
“No, it’s probably been—I don’t know, a week maybe since I’ve actually slept. But we don’t have time...” She had to stifle a yawn as she finished speaking.
“Oh no?” Findelbres asked. “And what are we going to do when we catch Dowbreth, yawn him into submission? You need some rest. Sleep for a couple of hours, at least. I’ll have some supper ready for you, and we’ll ride through the night, if we need to.”
“This is sound counsel, Princess,” agreed Delorick.
She gave in.
Once she agreed to rest, she moved quickly to unpack her sleeping gear. Scarce had a moment passed and she was huddled under the blanket.
Part of Kiliordes was amazed, yet he had the recollection of moving with the same skill and efficiency at one time.
Her voice came muffled through her bedding cocoon, “Findelbres, get that fire going as soon as you can, thanks. And just a couple of hours—no more.”
Kiliordes looked at the others and shrugged. He began to prepare his own bedding. Pagyrus offered to help Findelbres gather firewood. Delorick seemed torn between the two activities. He idly gathered a few sticks of kindling, and then gave up to take his own rest. Kiliordes dozed off with surprising ease in the cold winter sunshine.
Kiliordes awoke to the crackling of a nearby fire. For a moment, he could not remember where he was. Grogginess. He felt the hard, chill ground beneath his blankets quite acutely. He uncovered his head and the smell of meat cooking struck him. The feeble, afternoon winter sun shone wearily over the trees.
“Ah good, he’s awake at last,” said Delorick brightly. “Good morning, Lord Kiliordes.”
“That leaves only the princess asleep,” commented Pagyrus. “Should we wake her, then?”
“Yes, yes, by all means, she’ll be quite cross if we don’t,” answered Findelbres. “And believe me, you don’t want to see her cross.”
“I heard that,” came Brythia’s voice from beneath her blankets.
With some effort, Kiliordes slowly pulled himself out of his bedding as the druidess quickly did the same.
“What are you cooking?” asked Kiliordes as he caught another whiff of whatever it was they were cooking, “It smells delicious.”
“Roast boar. Leftovers from the Jarrel’s feast,” replied Findelbres. “We’re just warming it up a bit.”
“I’d say it’s there,” said Delorick, poking the meat that he turned on a makeshift spit, with a stick.
“That’s good,” said Pagyrus. “For I am hungry. And, I must say that you people do eat pretty well for non-pilgrims.” He hovered over the fire inhaling the meat’s aroma.
Brythia walked over to the fire. “If it is ready, we should eat. We have no time to waste.”
“So much for healthful digestion,” commented Pagyrus, good-naturedly, or at least so it seemed to Kiliordes.
Brythia, however, shot the Solar Pilgrim a nasty look of complete impatience. “You are welcome to relax here as long as you like, but if you intend to come with me, I suggest you eat quickly and be ready to leave immediately.”
Afterward, they ate in a hurried silence following the
druidess’ lead, gulping down the meat and taking a few swigs of water. To Kiliordes, the meat tasted even better
than it had at the Jarrels’ Hall—there was always something tasty about food
eaten (and prepared) outside. No doubt,
he mused, one’s body is extra happy about the nutritional support to help
battle the effects of exposure to the elements.
Several of Kilfrie’s druidic memories came back to him: countless days
and nights spent in the forest and many, many meals cooked in the wilds (though
clearly druidic culinary skills paled with this Lormian fare).
He had hardly swallowed his last bite when Brythia leapt
up and straightaway set to putting out the fire. Kiliordes found himself jumping up and
helping her... both of them using their feet in the method their druidic
training had imbued in them. Kiliordes
was surprised— he moved his in concert with hers.
“You remember, huh,” said Brythia, with a trace of a
smile on her lips and pleasantness in her voice, the first such expression to
mark her since her arrival in Lorm last night, or this morning, whichever it
was.
He smiled back.
“Yes, much of the old training is coming back to me out here.”
“You’ll have to join Myrthis and me on our druid
outings,” the golden-haired nature priestess suggested. Then her countenance went blank as dark
thoughts seemed to gather on her brow.
Poor girl, thought Kiliordes, Poor dear Brythia. He tried to sound as encouraging as
possible. “Don’t worry Brythia, we’ll
catch up to them soon, get Tolian back, and before you know it, you, Myrthis
and I will be out in the woods practicing our nature magick and
aggravating the Lormian nobility.”
“Thank you,” she said, “I need to believe that.”
How must she feel?
There were no magicks more potent than love magick. The magick that bound Brythia to Tolian. In the Druidic Order, such spells were
strictly forbidden. The severity of the
effects made so much more the grievous moral objections of interfering to such
a degree with the individual’s free will.
The folk charms of the uneducated, of course, rarely possessed the
necessary power to be effective or lasting, but to a skilled practitioner of
the magick arts, it was too easy to bind two people together in eternal
love. Eternal Love. Pure love that lasted for all eternity. And that was precisely the problem with such
undertakings. If such a spell is cast
and one of the lovers should perish, the other will quickly follow them into
death. It is said that even beyond the
shores of death, and through all of their lives are they so bound. For some, mere separation can cause physical
pain and extreme psychological torment.
Kiliordes had heard from Myrthis, who had received her information from
Brythia, that the High Druidess, Magara, had been sanctioned to use exactly
those formulae to bind Tolian to Brythia, and thereby secure his (at the time)
cooperation. Kilirodes could see the
signs of her suffering in her face as they spoke.
Kiliordes couldn’t help but notice that she was giving
him that look. The one she always gave
him. The look. Straight in the eyes, determined to be
accepting and warm, despite the fact that he wore the face of her deepest
nightmare. She always tried so hard to
not be affected by him. Bless her.
“Let’s go,” Kiliordes suggested. And it was he that hurried the others to
swiftly gather their gear and get moving.
Then it was back on the horses and off in pursuit.
They rode harder and faster than Kiliordes had ever
ridden before. In her haste, Brythia
pushed her faerie horse far faster than the mortal horses, which the rest of
them rode, could keep pace. Yet, the
beasts did their best to hold that dizzy gallop steady. They passed a sizeable tavern with an
inviting inn just as the sun dipped below the tree-lined horizon, lighting the
clouds with deep orange and pink highlights.
Kiliordes imagined the warmth of the hearth inside the inn and the taste
of fine Lormian ale they no doubt offered.
Imagination would have to suffice, for there was no denying the urgency
of their quest afforded them no time for such distractions.
Now they turned off the road and forced their horses down
what amounted to little more than a deer path.
Despite Brythia’s attempt to force them to continue her frenetic pace,
their mortal horses, Elven spell notwithstanding, could not do so. He was surprised that Pagyrus was able to
keep up with her at all. What a horseman
he was. Clearly, he had done a great
deal of riding in his past before he joined the Solar Pilgrimage Festival.
The chill set in deeper as nighttime took hold of the
thick woods they recklessly navigated.
No one else seemed to mind the tight path or the almost constant barrage
of branches leaping out of the darkness and smashing into their faces. He had almost lost sight of Delorick, who was
riding right in front of him. He thought
of his warm bed, of the Jarrels’ feast, of all of the comforts he was already
missing. Darkness and the cold were his
only comforts. He felt guilty for
feeling sorry for himself. Think of poor
Tolian, he thought. In the clutches
of that villain. And he was feeling
sorry for himself. No, his discomfort
was voluntary. He would gladly endure as
much of this wearying journey as was necessary for the sake of his friend.
A strange quietness came over him. The darkness of the deep woods tightly around
him, the pounding of hooves, the crashing of branches. Crazy speed.
It was almost hypnotic. He became
numb to the danger and the scratches and welts, which adorned his exposed
skin. He lost himself to the thrill of
the ride, to the obsession of their determination. Just going on. Racing through the night.
Voices in the distance.
He strained to hear. Pagyrus was
shouting something. Kiliordes caught his
words.
“Brythia, we must stop.”
No answer. Of
course not, thought Kiliordes.
“We must stop.”
Defiantly she screamed back, “No, we can’t. We can’t.
We’re catching up to them. I can
feel it.”
Then, Kiliordes heard a snap, even before he felt the
branch strike him in the shoulder. A
moment of acute pain, followed by the sensation of flying through the air. He panicked and yelled in surprise and
fear. The biting blackness of the
underbrush. A barren bough torn through
his trousers and skin. Another crash and
a thud as he felt the impact of the frozen path. His head hit quite hard.
He attempted to raise himself and a surge of dizziness
brought him back down.
Now, there was more yelling and shouting up ahead, but he
could not focus on it—he was slipping into unconsciousness.
Copyright 2004, 2015 Diana Hignutt
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