two of them, but she kept her distance from the mercenary.
Vambran glanced over at Elenthia once and caught her staring at him. In her eyes he saw sorrow and repulsion. “It will wash away,” he told her. He wondered if he meant it for himself, too.
“You” she said, faltering. “I watched you” Elenthia shook her head, unable to continue. She sped ahead, running to catch up to Arbeenok.
Vambran started to call to her, but he understood that words could not undo what he had become in her eyes. He recognized that haunted look all too well.
The druid led them to the side of the garden wall and discovered a gate set into it near the corner. It was locked, but the alaghi threw his shoulder into it a couple of times and broke through. Beyond the portal, the garden was filled with thick, flowering vines and meandering paths. Lush greenery rustled in the gentle sea breezes, blending the scent of their blossoms, and the trickle of running water came from near the middle of the enclosure. Arbeenok pushed through the dripping foliage and headed in that
direction. Elenthia followed right behind the druid, leaving Vambran to bring up the rear.
When Vambran caught up to his two companions, he found them standing very still. They were at the edge of an open courtyard partially lit by a few lanterns hanging from poles around the perimeter. A fountain had once stood in the midst of the tiny plaza, a sculpture of a deific being bearing a shield and a horn and posing regally. But it was knocked over, and water flowed out of its basin and spilled onto the paving stones. There, a pair of great battles had been fought.
The first was all in miniature, an elaborate setup of children’s blocks made to look like a city, all walls and towers. Tiny toy soldiers were scattered through the city, many of them fallen, as though a great and terrible dragon had arrived and blasted them all from their defenses. The water from the ruined fountain spilled into the miniature city and flowed along its streets before draining away into the grass beyond.
The second battle was far more real. A contingent of what appeared to be House guards lay dead, scat-, tered about the plaza. Intermingled with them were others, citizens, their skin pasty and blistered in the pale moonlight. It was clear to Vambran that the plague had visited that house, and no one had survived.
“Will any of them rise?” he asked Arbeenok as he stepped around Elenthia. “Perhaps we should not tarry here.”
Arbeenok said nothing, though, so Vambran moved to the fountain, stepping among the toy blocks as he did so. He knelt down next to the basin and began to wash himself, rinsing away the film of blood as
best as he could. He dunked his head in the water, swishing his hair about, trying to cleanse both his body and his mind of the terrible crimson taint that covered him. He didn’t even care that the three blue dots inked on his forehead, his symbol of his education, were little more than pale turquoise smudges by the time he finished.
“I don’t understand,” Arbeenok said.
Vambran wiped water from his eyes and looked at the druid. “What?” he asked.
“My vision,” Arbeenok said. “I see you there, as it Was in my vision, but I still do not understand what it means.”
“Your vision? What vision?”
“In the days before this journey, I foresaw this image. A man of blue and red, standing over a drowned city, a city surrounded by twelve swords. But I did not understand it.”
Vambran looked around at himself, at his position. All the elements of the druid’s description were there. He was in the middle of it all, partially washed clean so that his blue tunic showed through, and partially still tainted red by countless people’s blood. And the soldiers’ swords that lay scattered about the periphery completed the scene. It was not a pleasant image.
“Twelve swords?” Elenthia asked, seeming at last to come out of her stupor. “I don’t count twelve.
Vambran glanced over at Elenthia once and caught her staring at him. In her eyes he saw sorrow and repulsion. “It will wash away,” he told her. He wondered if he meant it for himself, too.
“You” she said, faltering. “I watched you” Elenthia shook her head, unable to continue. She sped ahead, running to catch up to Arbeenok.
Vambran started to call to her, but he understood that words could not undo what he had become in her eyes. He recognized that haunted look all too well.
The druid led them to the side of the garden wall and discovered a gate set into it near the corner. It was locked, but the alaghi threw his shoulder into it a couple of times and broke through. Beyond the portal, the garden was filled with thick, flowering vines and meandering paths. Lush greenery rustled in the gentle sea breezes, blending the scent of their blossoms, and the trickle of running water came from near the middle of the enclosure. Arbeenok pushed through the dripping foliage and headed in that
direction. Elenthia followed right behind the druid, leaving Vambran to bring up the rear.
When Vambran caught up to his two companions, he found them standing very still. They were at the edge of an open courtyard partially lit by a few lanterns hanging from poles around the perimeter. A fountain had once stood in the midst of the tiny plaza, a sculpture of a deific being bearing a shield and a horn and posing regally. But it was knocked over, and water flowed out of its basin and spilled onto the paving stones. There, a pair of great battles had been fought.
The first was all in miniature, an elaborate setup of children’s blocks made to look like a city, all walls and towers. Tiny toy soldiers were scattered through the city, many of them fallen, as though a great and terrible dragon had arrived and blasted them all from their defenses. The water from the ruined fountain spilled into the miniature city and flowed along its streets before draining away into the grass beyond.
The second battle was far more real. A contingent of what appeared to be House guards lay dead, scat-, tered about the plaza. Intermingled with them were others, citizens, their skin pasty and blistered in the pale moonlight. It was clear to Vambran that the plague had visited that house, and no one had survived.
“Will any of them rise?” he asked Arbeenok as he stepped around Elenthia. “Perhaps we should not tarry here.”
Arbeenok said nothing, though, so Vambran moved to the fountain, stepping among the toy blocks as he did so. He knelt down next to the basin and began to wash himself, rinsing away the film of blood as
best as he could. He dunked his head in the water, swishing his hair about, trying to cleanse both his body and his mind of the terrible crimson taint that covered him. He didn’t even care that the three blue dots inked on his forehead, his symbol of his education, were little more than pale turquoise smudges by the time he finished.
“I don’t understand,” Arbeenok said.
Vambran wiped water from his eyes and looked at the druid. “What?” he asked.
“My vision,” Arbeenok said. “I see you there, as it Was in my vision, but I still do not understand what it means.”
“Your vision? What vision?”
“In the days before this journey, I foresaw this image. A man of blue and red, standing over a drowned city, a city surrounded by twelve swords. But I did not understand it.”
Vambran looked around at himself, at his position. All the elements of the druid’s description were there. He was in the middle of it all, partially washed clean so that his blue tunic showed through, and partially still tainted red by countless people’s blood. And the soldiers’ swords that lay scattered about the periphery completed the scene. It was not a pleasant image.
“Twelve swords?” Elenthia asked, seeming at last to come out of her stupor. “I don’t count twelve.
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