The Legend of Asahiel: Book 02 - The Obsidian Key (28 page)

It was midafternoon before they came upon anyone else. When they did, it was another pair of women. These were somewhat older, and judging by their interaction with Fawn and Jess, served as some form of sentry. They inspected his articles as Jess presented them, gasping and whispering to themselves when catching glimpse of the swirling flames and crimson glow of Sword and Pendant. With wide-eyed interest in his marvelous talismans, they looked him up and down, then waved his party on.

Soon after, they followed a switchback trail down the side of a steep embankment, coming at last upon what looked to be an ancient riverbed. Within its sloping basin lay a tumbledown series of shallow caves, roofed over by humpbacked piles of boulders left behind by the missing waters. Dozens of figures passed in and out of the gap-mouthed openings. Female all, he quickly realized. Nymphs, young and old, of various shapes and sizes—but all in pairs. A nervous prickle began to take root in the nape of his neck as he descended into their midst, where most stopped what they were doing to study the new arrival.

He wasn’t sure what to think of the looks they gave him, for there was a wide range. Anger and disgust appeared in equal measure to the welcoming smiles and suggestive poses, making it difficult to determine if the territory he had entered was hostile or friendly. Quite obviously, he could expect a bit of both.

A few called or whistled, both to him and his companions, as he entered the throat of the riverbed and was herded upstream amid the uneven carpet of stones. Like the silent faces, these verbal responses varied in their level of approval.

“You’re out of season, Fawn,” one might grumble. While across the way, another would purr, “Hey, Jess, when you’re finished, bring him to me.”

Torin did what he could to take it in stride, which meant ignoring the many inferences—both positive and negative—while yet glancing about with grim intensity so as not to miss any scrap of sensory information that might prove valuable later on.

Like an animal sniffing out a strange home, when it would prefer to return to its own.

They ushered him on toward what was perhaps the largest of the boulder clusters, picking their way over and between natural fortifications of rock and elevation to reach its yawning cave mouth. The forming stones were smooth-faced, worn so by untold centuries of water flow. Still, this and its fellow structures reminded Torin of cairns more than anything else, an association he found more than a little discomforting.

The space within was remarkably dry, the overhanging boulders sealed together with thick layers of moss and grass—as strong and tight as any pitch or mortar. Flaming braziers lit the cavernous foyer and lined a series of corridors passing back into darkness. In addition to their smoky haze, the cave was filled with a pleasant musk that reminded him of his own one-time forest home, spawning a gentle pang of fond remembrance.

When their eyes had adjusted to the dimness, they continued on, rounding a corner to the left, where not one, but two pairs of guards came forward to meet them. These provided additional escort as he delved deeper into the cave tunnel, coming at last to an opening beside which had been rigged a lever contraption of wood and leather used to open and close a stone door. It was here that Fawn and Jess said their good-byes.

“Anything else you would wish the Granmarch to know now?”

“Only that I’m looking forward to her visit,” Torin replied, hoping he sounded respectful and not just aggravated.

Fawn gave a slight nod, Jess another smirk and a wink, and the pair turned back the way they had come, his possessions in tow, one pair of guardswomen setting their pace.

The remaining guards nudged him forward through the cleft in the cavern wall. Beyond lay what appeared to be an immense holding area, wide-ringed yet low-roofed. Sets of bindings lay empty throughout—leather cuffs roped to anchors that had been hammered into the stone walls. With each set of cuffs went a belt and collar. A fresh rush of alarm swept through him when they marched him across the chamber and demanded that he kneel beside a group of these opposite the cavern door.

“Is this necessary?” he asked, his words muted by the weight of the cavern.

“Kneel,” one woman repeated, while the other leveled an artistically designed but cruel-bladed halberd at his throat. Torin obeyed, resisting the urge to make a break for it, and, while held at blade-point, allowed the other to buckle collar, belt, and cuffs into place.

“It may be awhile,” his binder warned before turning to leave. The halberd-bearer withdrew her weapon and spun away with a snort.

A moment later, the slab of stone serving as the door to his prison slid into place with a heavy grinding sound, and except for a lone brazier set to burn near the sealed exit across from him, Torin found himself left alone in deep, musty darkness.

He spent the next few moments testing his bonds, more in reflex than in
any concerted effort to slip free. Though it had the potential of becoming the worst decision he’d ever made, his sense was that he had a better chance of surviving this in submitting to their will than in fighting to impose his own. In any case, he remained in a poor position to choose otherwise. His cuffs were roped behind his back, attached to the belt in such a way as to deny him the maneuverability required to remove tongue from catch. The ropes themselves were coarse, and stronger than they appeared, seeming to be made of interwoven strips of bark that gave them the feel of a thick and healthy bramble stalk. And of course, even if he were to break free, there was little possibility of his remaining that way for long.

So he waited, with no idea how long it might be, only his jailor’s brief warning to go by. He wondered if Moss might be tracking him, hunting him down in order to earn out the rest of his payment. More likely, the rogue had moved on in order to seek out a safer charter. Which meant there was no one who could know where he had ended up. Until such time as Darinor decided to come in search of the Pendant, he was yet again on his own.

He sat down, slumped against the boulder to which he was chained, and marked the flickering patterns of light and shadow at play upon the cavern walls. He must have dozed for a time, for before he knew it, he was alerted by the grinding of rock as the entry door was levered aside. His head came up swiftly, eyes heavy with grit as he blinked in the darkness. A torch and materials were brought in by one of the guardswomen and used to light the now extinguished brazier. With its flame crackling once more, the halberd-bearer from before marched up to him.

“On your knees before the Granmarch,” she said.

Torin did as he was told, rising awkwardly from his seated position, ropes and collar chafing. He blinked some more as the woman and her partner stepped aside and bowed as if presenting him to another.

He looked past them as yet another pair of Nymphs came forward. All of a sudden, his blinking stopped. So too did his breathing, which he held in an attempt to mask his own surprise. For of all the striking young women he had seen that day, this one put them all to shame. Though she wore no adornment that he could discern, he knew her at once as the leader of this band. It was in her bearing, in her face and in her eyes: a confidence of the sort possessed by generals and kings. Rarer still, it radiated outward without bluster or fanfare, which somehow made it all the more evident.

“I am Dynara,” she said, in a silky voice both smooth and authoritative. “Granmarch of the Fenwa.”

Torin realized he was staring, but could not seem to recall what a more proper etiquette might be. Though oft enchanted by a woman’s beauty, he felt something here beyond simple appreciation. Perhaps because he had expected someone older, a grand matriarch with wrinkled skin and shriveled frame, wise yet weather-beaten from having lived a life out-of-doors. But like Fawn and Jess, Dynara looked almost exactly his own age, with a silken shirt and leather tunic cinched tight about her slim waist. Auburn hair hung free, clear to her beltline. The cavern’s shadows could find no purchase on her face,
so smooth and evenly formed and hollow-free. Despite the dim lighting, her maple eyes gleamed.

She snapped her fingers, and for a moment, Torin worried his obvious attentions had given offense. He was much relieved, therefore, when the Granmarch’s partner stepped forward, his divine talismans in hand. This other had a roundish pixie face with hair not unlike a mushroom cap, individual locks full of spring and body as they fountained down so as to barely tickle the nape of her neck. There was a rouge to her cheeks—her skin much whiter than Dynara’s—and a pleasant smile upon her lips.

“I’m told these were taken from your possession,” Dynara said, gesturing toward Sword and Pendant.

A frog in his throat, Torin managed a polite nod.

Dynara took the Pendant from her companion. With one hand holding the silver chain, she used the other to cup and admire the flaming heartstone.

“A marvelous enchantment,” she said, congratulating him. “Are you a warlock of some sort?”

Torin shook his head.

“And yet it is clear you are no ordinary rogue. So tell me, Torin of Alson, what were you doing in our woods?”

Torin did so. He told her everything, from the moment of his brother’s invasion to now. He had decided even before he had fallen asleep that he would, if given the chance. Perhaps in being utterly revealing he might win this Granmarch’s trust. Or if not, perhaps he might be able to impress upon her how dire was his situation, spawning in her a fear that would earn him his freedom. He’d been able to think of no reason not to, since there was nothing he could tell her that would make him any more vulnerable than he already was.

That had been his reasoning going in. Now, however, he felt an additional motivation, a subtle urge that went hand in hand with the rest. Seldom did he feel the need to tout his own achievements, to use them to build himself up in another’s eyes. But he did so now, speaking freely about who he had been, and who he had become. He assured himself privately that it was only for the benefit of his mission, to help convince his captors of its importance. He told himself it was this and nothing more, that it mattered not what she thought of him as an individual.

Even though it might have been a lie.

The narration took some time. His listeners didn’t seem to mind, doing nothing to rush him, bidding him continue whenever he took pause. By the time he had finished, his knees were screaming at having been pinned against the cavern bedrock for so long. Dynara and her companions, however, remained where they stood, showing no sign of discomfort and making no mention of having noticed his. Both the Granmarch and her partner appeared stolid in their reactions, as if wary of being taken in by some charlatan. Nor did the pair of unnamed guardswomen, flanked to either side of him, reveal anything in their bluff expressions.

As their silence lengthened, Torin began to wonder if he should not say
something more. But his story spoke for itself; he had nothing else with which to plead for clemency.

At last, Dynara spoke.

“That may be the most unlikely tale I’ve ever heard,” she said. “For you to tell it means either you truly believe it, or else you presume me a fool.”

Torin played through half a dozen potential responses, but not one that might win him favor, and so kept his mouth shut.

“I’ll assume for a moment it’s the former, and not the latter,” she continued. Her gleaming eyes held him fast. “The question then becomes, what do
I
presume of
you
?”

Torin worked hard to match her gaze, careful not to let his own slip or roam.

“What do you think, Naia?”

Her pixie-faced partner puckered her lips in consideration. “I see little risk to us, either way.”

Dynara smiled, supple skin drawing back without creasing, the teeth beyond like whitewashed marble. “Naia,” she said to him, indicating the other. “My kinmate.” The smile diminished. “She’s right, of course. So let us agree for now that neither of us is a fool. What would you have of me?”

“Only to be set free to resume course, with my deepest apologies for having trespassed upon your lands.”

“That’s all?” Dynara asked, arching a single brow. “You are an outlander. You claim to know nothing of these lands. You ask me to set you free so that you may find your way into the hands of the warlord Lorre. Perhaps one of us is a fool after all.”

Torin frowned. What sort of game was this woman playing?

“We are rangers,” she explained. “To care for this forest and its inhabitants is our solemn duty. If I am to believe your story, it might be said that the best way to serve that duty would be to see that your quest—mad as it seems—succeeds. Otherwise, it might be that I should keep this so-called Sword of Asahiel for myself, using it to strengthen our defense against unwelcome outsiders.”

Torin thought he saw now what she was hinting at. “Perhaps we can do something to aid each other,” he suggested. “An arrangement that would benefit both of us?”

Dynara’s smile returned. “Now
that
at last is a sensible idea.”

“And does my lady have something in mind?”

“What would you say, I wonder, to having a pair of Hunters of my choosing sent to escort you on this journey—to Lorre and beyond, if necessary—with the understanding that if at any time it seems you are about to fail, or they decide you have not been utterly forthright with me, their instructions would be to kill you on the spot and return these talismans to me.”

Torin scowled. “You
could
just kill me now.”

“But you might be telling the truth—as you see it anyway. In which case I would be doing neither of us a great favor. Besides, we are not brigands, merely a band of women determined to resist the oppression of men, offering both refuge and purpose to freedom-loving souls throughout the land.”

“
Female
souls,” Torin noted. “Making men like myself the enemy.” It was dangerous territory, he knew, but ground that needed to be tested if he was to have any true sense of where he stood.