Chapter
28
Once again, the forest’s sparse
winter canopy crowned their passage. The
path was wide enough for them to travel one by one, without the constant
assault of limbs and bracken. For that
much, Kiliordes was grateful. He rode
second to last, behind Pagyrus, and just ahead of Findelbres, who stationed
himself in the rear to listen for sounds of pursuit. The cold seemed to be bothering Kiliordes
more and more. He supposed he’d gotten
spoiled by the days of relaxing at the Inn.
The memory of the excellent beer made his mouth water. But he knew where his duty lay, and he was
going to do everything he could to help Brythia find Tolian. Well, everything, within reason. He certainly did not intend to enter Faerie
with Brythia and Findelbres. It was an
established fact that no mortal had ever returned from Faerie.
His future had become much more
complex now, since their encounter with Kelvris. Or perhaps, it had become simpler. Unless Brythia did find Tolian and somehow
returned with her to Lorm, there was no way any of them could go back. And despite the fact that he wore his most
determined expression, he knew in his heart that Brythia didn’t have a
chance. To be clear, he did not doubt
the druidess’ resolve. She would no
doubt find a way into Faerie. She would
probably even be able to track down Tolian and Dowbreth once there, but he did
not see any way for Brythia to best Dowbreth in combat, Moonsword or not. Tolian had all of her power when she faced
Dowbreth, and she could not vanquish him.
What chance did Brythia have? It
was unlikely that he would ever return to his newfound home at the Lormian
palace.
It seemed that events were leading
him to the Solar Pilgrimage Festival after all.
In his heart, he knew that it was what he desired. To live the carefree existence of the joyous
pilgrim. To be free from the shadow of
the past. To live somewhere where he
could just be Kiliordes, and not have people look at him as though he were
someone else. He wasn’t Kilfrie, he
wasn’t Rwiordes, and he certainly wasn’t the Demon. Yet, in subtle, perhaps unconscious ways, the
people closest to him did not really know who he was. They looked at him and saw ghosts. With the Solar Pilgrims, he could start
anew. Sure, they had known him briefly
as Rwiordes, but only briefly. And yes,
they thought of him as the person who saved the world, and they expected him to
become their new leader, but those expectations he could live with. To travel with the sun, spreading joy and
mirth. To revel in the rays of the Daystar,
bringing the glad tidings of those golden rays to all who would receive
them. He was decided: once they made
certain of Brythia’s passage into Faerie, he would go with Pagyrus to Southern
Surtiz and rendezvous with the Solar Pilgrimage Festival.
When they stopped to camp that
night, Kiliordes was overjoyed. A bitter
cold had set in, and he was already tired of riding. They lit a large fire that Brythia made
certain was well controlled. They ate
the last bit of stew and some bread, and stared into the flames. There was something so magickal about fire,
Kiliordes mused as the warmth wrapped around him. Mesmerizing.
He had seconds of the stew, washed it down with a little wine, and then
wrapped himself up in his blanket for the night, close enough to the fire, yet
not so close that he would catch aflame.
The last thing he remembered hearing was Brythia’s voice.
“Delorick, you are sure this path
will soon turn west, right? We’ve been
going pretty much south.”
He didn’t hear the Captain of the Guard’s
answer.
Kiliordes’ dream. He was on a ship. A sturdy vessel with a broad hull and two
masts reaching high sails full with the wind.
How real it was. One of those
dreams that possess that vivid lifelike quality, a certain lucidity. Was he dreaming? He hadn’t remembered dreaming in a long
time. Had he even dreamt before? As Kiliordes?
He didn’t think so. The warm sea
breeze kissed his cheeks. He inhaled the
delightful salty air. The sun on his
face. So pleasant. He looked out over the port rail. The blue ocean water spread out as far as the
eye could see. Maybe this wasn’t a dream
after all. Perhaps, everything else had
been a dream. Maybe there was no mad
trek through the winter’s forest, no formerly male, kidnapped princess, no faerie
warlord, no obsessed and beautiful druidess.
Maybe there never had been a Kilfrie or a Rwiordes. Maybe he had always been Kiliordes. Maybe there had never been a Demon. It hit him.
It did not matter. Dream or
reality, he wanted to hang on to this sweet respite, this oasis of tranquility.
It occurred to him that he should
try and find someone else on this ship.
He could find out exactly where they were sailing. That might, indeed, be important
information. He looked about, but no one
else was evident to his immediate inspection.
He headed towards the front of the boat.
The bow, he remembered. Yes, that
was what it was called. The bow.
It was difficult to take his gaze
from the ocean. The rolling waves kissed
the azure vault of heaven, while a thin string of puffy white clouds lined the
horizon. As he walked, he quickly
scanned the deck around him, and then stole looks over the sea. The pitching of the ship as it crested waves
produced an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. A slight queasiness, nothing more. He leaned over the rail and looked down into
the ocean. A blue-green abyss full of
mystery and power churned below. What
monsters moved in those depths? A chill
ran down his spine.
Finally, as he approached the wheel,
he saw someone else. A lone figure,
standing at the helm. He was tall and
thin, and oddly familiar from the back.
“Hail, captain,” Kiliordes shouted
over to him as he walked.
The fellow turned his head back to
face Kiliordes and smiled. It was Perelisk.
Brythia’s dream. She was on the White Hart’s back. As soon as she realized this, they broke out
of the forest and on to a grassy plain.
Patches of snow, glowed and shimmered in the moonlight, like ghosts
dancing below them.
“Welcome back, Priestess of the
Sun,” the hart said in greeting. “It has
been days since you have dreamt deeply enough to resume our trek, but
nonetheless, some progress has been made.”
She was surprised. “How is that possible? If I have not been dreaming how could we have
progressed in our dream journey?” she asked.
“You came close enough a few times,”
answered the hart, plainly. “Not enough
for us to converse, but your spirit is driven by an insatiable fire; it is
always bending towards my lady. We have
moved as the dream shadows through the tangled forests of your unconscious
fancy. Your heart ever strives to reach
her.”
“Okay, you said her, but who do you
mean, exactly? Tolian or your mistress,
the Celestial Aspect of the Moon Goddess?
I am confused.”
“They are the same,” replied the
beast cryptically.
“Look, they can’t be the same,” said
the druidess. “Tolian doesn’t know
anything about being the Moon Goddess, she’s just her earthly manifestation,
right? They are different.”
“They are the same.”
“You’re not very good at explaining
things, are you?” Brythia asked in
frustration.
“I do not see the confusion. I am sorry.
It is clear to me,” said the White Hart apologetically. “My Lady will explain when we get there.”
“Where exactly are we going, again?”
“To the Moon,” answered the deer.
“And how long is it going to take to
get there?”
“Several long dreams, Princess. Several long dreams. The Moon is far even in the country of
dreams. Very far.”
copyright 2004, 2015 Diana Hignutt
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