Dueling emotions waged war in Galen's breast. The clouds that had drizzled rain over the Pinedark cleared away to reveal an azure sky, and the air he breathed was sweet and fresh. The woods in which he walked were light and colorful—birch with white bark striped with black, and aspen with leaves like gold coins that made a sound like water in the wind. Birds sang, and the sun glinted in a rain-washed sky. It was heavenly, yet Galen felt the pine-gloom had followed him as a heavy darkness in his heart.
He looked to his companions and saw his feeling mirrored on their faces. They were now one fewer in number, and what should have been a time of joyous relief was instead one of sorrow. A thread of guilt wormed its way through his thoughts, and he crushed it angrily.
He had no right to feel guilty; he hadn't asked to be kidnapped and brought to a forest full of monsters, and he hadn't asked to be this 'p'yrha' thing, either. Iksthanis's choices had been his own. If anyone should feel guilty, it was Sev, but Galen had no idea what the tall, pale man was feeling. His face was impassive and devoid of emotion, and like the others, he had not spoken a word since they left the chasm and the Pinedark behind.
Yet Galen knew his lack of expression did not mean he felt nothing; Zenír's face, too, was blank, and it was clear he felt Iksthanis's loss more keenly than anyone. Galen wondered if they had been lovers or merely shared the love of friends, but now was not the time to ask.
They had left the Pinedark in the late morning, and though weary with exertion and sorrow, and weak with the aftermath of fear, Sev and Rea had convinced them to keep going and to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the pines. Galen had thought it impossible, and that he would soon collapse from fatigue, but he kept walking, though his mind went dull and blank. Soon his sense of the world darkened and collapsed, until he saw nothing but the ground at his feet, felt nothing but the pain in his body—a dull, pervasive ache—and heard nothing but a steady, quiet rushing in his ears.
"Galen!"
He startled as Sev stepped in front of him and held his shoulders, forcing him to stop.
"What?" Galen asked, but his lips failed to move.
"I've been calling you. Did you not hear?"
He shook his head, but again was unsure he succeeded.
"Galen?"
Sev's brows pinched with concern, and Galen realized he had failed to make any reply at all.
"Come; this way," Sev said, turning him around and leading him back through the trees. "We've come far enough for today, and found a good place to camp."
Ahead, Galen saw a small, clear alpine lake with shores of smooth stone. The other already rested on a broad, flat ledge beside the water, shedding their gear and unlacing their boots. Joining them, Galen's legs buckled, and he half fell and half sat at Behn's side.
"All right, Gale?" Behn asked. His face was red and sweaty, and he winced as he pulled a boot off a swollen and blistered foot. His ankle was bruised a mottled purple, and it looked as if he'd sprained it at some point. Driven by some reflexive instinct, Galen reached for it, but Sev, who had crouched at his side, held him back.
"I can help," Galen mumbled, managing to speak at last.
"Maybe later," said Sev. "Everyone has blisters, bruises and scrapes. Including you." He brushed some dark curls, crusted with blood, away from a cut on Galen's brow, caused by a stick or a stone somewhere along the way. "You're in no condition to help anyone but yourself. You're dehydrated and near exhaustion, and you're not alone in that."
Raising his voice, he addressed the group at large.
"We have several hours of daylight left. I want everyone to rest. Sleep, take your fill of water, bathe, eat what food we have on hand. At eventide we will make a proper camp, build a fire, cook a meal. Then, in the morning, when we are rested and fed, we will remember our friend."
No one argued, and for some time afterward, no one spoke again.
-✵-
The lake was clean and clear, fed by little streams running down from the mountains' slopes. They designated an area at the lower end, where the lake drained into a small river, for bathing, and gathered water for cooking and drinking from the upper side.
After quenching his thirst, Galen lay down in a flat, sandy place, his body so glad of rest he might as well have lain on a feather bed, and slipped into a dreamless state.
Sev roused him near sunset, and he saw the others had a fire going with Behn's pot over it, though Behn himself still dozed.
"Can you stand?" Sev asked, extending his hand to help Galen up.
Still a little dazed, Galen ignored the offer and got to his feet, then nearly fell. Sev steadied him, slipping an arm around his back.
"Let's get some food in you. It should be just about ready."
Galen briefly considered resisting, but found he lacked the strength.
Sev guided him towards the fire, where Obi, Rea, and Triss had built a ring of stones to contain a bright blaze and gathered several logs and large flat rocks to serve as benches and seats.
Galen sat on a log-bench and Sev sat at his side; Obi served them each a small bowl of mixed rice and beans, seasoned with salt and dried herbs.
"Nothing fancy, I'm afraid," he said quietly. "But filling."
Galen lifted a heaping spoonful towards his mouth, but Obi stopped him.
"It's hot," he said, apologetically. "Eat slowly. There's plenty to be had."
Galen obeyed and blew carefully on the spoon before conveying it to his mouth.
Obi was right: it was plain fare, but it didn't matter. It was delicious, and Galen's bowl was empty before he knew it.
"You're sure there's enough?" Galen asked, as Obi served him a second helping.
Obi nodded. His blond beard and curling hair were clean, and his hands free of grime, the bitten one wrapped in a fresh bandage. It seemed the others had washed already, and Galen looked self-consciously at his own dirt-encrusted nails.
"I made plenty," Obi said. "Enough for everyone to have three bowls. And..." He looked away and bit his lip, his eyes slightly red. "Well, I made enough for everyone."
It took Galen a moment to realize that he meant he'd made Iksthanis's portion, too.
"Where is Zenír?" Sev asked in an undertone. "Has he eaten?"
Obi shook his head. "He's bathing."
Sev rose, but Obi rested a hand on his shoulder and kept him in his seat.
"Triss is keeping an eye on him," he said. "He's... Well, he's not 'fine,' but he's well enough, for the moment. You can't watch out for all of us all the time, Sev. You need to take care of yourself, too."
A dark expression flickered across Sevhalim's pale features, and he looked away.
"It is a leader's duty to protect those who follow him," he said. "I should have made Iksthanis go first. The log-bridge would have held him, and if the rest of us had taken care—"
"You're wrong."
Everyone looked up as Zenír joined them, his hair damp with water and his face scrubbed clean. He took a deep breath before continuing and spoke in Sev's direction. Most of the men sported several weeks' growth of beard by now, but Zenir's face remained smooth and hairless, as did Galen's. Pyrran men and women seldom grew body hair, and Galen wondered if he and Zenír might have that ancestry in common.
"'Thanis weighed the odds," Zenír said, "and he acted in the interest of everyone. He made the right choice. And... he isn't dead."
"Zenír..." Sev rose, his expression stricken, but the other man continued.
"No—listen to me, Sev. I glimpsed his fate, once—'Thanis's, and mine. It was not this. I told him of it, for it was not a bad end, and it gave me hope that someday we would deserve such happiness. I think he acted as he did because he believed me. He said as much."
"Zen..." Sev's eyes shone with tears and his voice wavered, but Zenír drew himself up, straight and strong.
"Do not pity me, Sevhalim," he said quietly. "I do not cling to a false hope, nor has grief broken my mind. I have doubted myself too long; and now, at this strange hour, I find faith. Iksthanis lives. If I am wrong, let time prove it. In the meanwhile, I shall not mourn what I have not lost."
Sevhalim stared at him a moment, and Galen read a panoply of emotion in his face; but at last, he took Zenír's hand in his and guided him to sit at his side on the bench-like log.
"Very well," he said. "We both know well enough that fates may change, as dust is blown about on the wind; but if you believe Iksthanis lives, Zen, I will believe it, too."
Zenír nodded and accepted a bowl of food.
-✵-
After the meal, while there was still a blush of light in the sky, Galen made his way over to the place where the others had gone to swim and bathe. It was a place where a smooth shelf of stone led out to a depth of waist-height before dropping off steeply into the dark.
Mindful that Sevhalim had followed him, Galen shed his clothes stiffly, each movement accompanied by a hint of pain, and entered the water, shivering, with his arms wrapped tight about his chest.
The water was frigid, but he welcomed the sting of cold against his skin, and when he reached the end of the natural ramp, he dove in, head first, and reveled in the icy dark weightlessness.
He surfaced with a gasp, and treaded water, and wiped the droplets from his eyes. Then he lay on his back a while, floating as Harrald had taught him to, long ago, and let his mind drift as he watched bats swoop across a purple sky pierced with stars.
When he was suitably numb, he turned over and swam frog-style towards the shore.
He stopped when he saw Sevhalim waiting for him on the ledge of stone, holding something white.
"Soap plant," he said, holding it up. "It's in the onion family, but the bulb isn't edible. However, it makes a good lather when cut, and lives up to its name well enough."
Hesitantly, Galen approached and reached for the offering.
"Thank you," he said, but the other man held the plant beyond his grasp.
"Turn around," he said.
Slowly, Galen looked up and met Sevhalim's strange, silvered gaze. He knew his own eyes were dark as the lake at his back, maybe with hints of purple from the sky, but not lit like the moon, as were Sev's.
Who was this man? What was he? And what would Zenír see if he gazed on their intertwined fates?
Shutting his eyes, he decided to take a leap of faith, and with a slight exhalation, he turned.
Slow and careful, the other man rubbed the soapy plant up and down his back, over his shoulders, and along his arms, before handing it over so Galen could take care of the rest on his own.
As he finished bathing, Galen couldn't help wondering what Sevhalim saw in him. He clearly cared deeply for all within his charge; but was Galen just a package to be delivered, or was he something more? He wished for Zenír's insight, yet feared what it might show, as well.
On the other hand, perhaps there was something he might use to his advantage.
When he'd finished cleansing himself, he returned to dry land and donned his grimy clothes once more.
"Tomorrow we will wash everything," Sevhalim said, dressing himself as well. "In the meanwhile..."
"We are clean, and well fed, and we are safe," Galen said, and rested his hands on the other man's waist.
Sevhalim smiled, and released a ragged breath.
"I do not have Zenír's faith," he said, "but I do not need it. For this moment, this is enough."
He returned Galen's light embrace, and Galen felt a strange combination of things—a rush of fire and ice—as the crescent moon silvered the still waters of the black lake.