Alliances

A death like this, bathed in the stench of Nalis Aren, with an aged retainer snoring nearby, was not to be imagined. Porthios had endured much. Knowing Alhana lived, although parted from him forever, gave him the strength to tolerate. But if he must watch her die—

She would not die. Dreams and romance aside, she simply had too much more to do. There was too much at stake, and far too much left unsaid.

He took her hand. “How can I save you?” he whispered. Her fingers were slack in his grip.

Pain had saved him from dying. The agony of burns and broken bones had raged so hard within him, he couldn’t hear death’s soft summons. He still battled pain during every waking moment. The endless war made him strong.

He realized he was squeezing her hand very hard. Rather than ease his grip, he increased it, crushing her fingers between his own. Had she merely been sleeping, she would have awakened and cried out. Abruptly, he lifted his free hand and struck her across the face. Her head lolled away from him.

“Don’t you feel that?” he said, voice rising.

Despite the situation, shame twisted his stomach. In all their long lives together, he’d never lifted his hand to her. He felt bile rise in the back of his throat, but he struck her again. There was no response.

His eyes burned. Since his injury, he had been unable to weep proper tears. Grief sweated from his eyes.

The sound of footsteps brought his head up. Chathendor still slept, and he first thought Kerian was intruding, but the footfalls were coming from the road, not the woods. He did not bother to rise. Blinking moisture from his eyes, he merely waited.

Night at the Lake of Death was not much different from day. It was darker, though not much, and perhaps the stink was less. The mist clung to the lake’s edges, creating the illusion the black cauldron was rimmed with snow.

A figure emerged into feeble starlight. He was human, a stout old man with short white hair standing out from his head in all directions. He leaned on a blackthorn staff and wore threadbare priestly robes. Porthios immediately recognized his mentor from the forest.

The old priest called, “Greetings, my faceless friend.”

Porthios did not answer. The old man shuffled closer. “You grieve. I felt your sorrow far down the road.”

“What do you want?” Porthios’s voice was choked and dry.

“What I’ve always wanted, to lend my support.”

Alhana’s breathing faltered for an instant, and Porthios felt his heart skip a beat. “Support? If you really wanted to support my people, you would right the wrongs done to them.”

The priest came forward. He halted a few steps from Alhana’s feet. “This one I’ve known a long time. So many great mortals she knew, without ever quite achieving greatness herself.” Porthios glared at him, but the old man went on, oblivious. “Direct intervention seldom works out well. Trust what I tell you, my wounded friend. It has been tried before, and the consequences inevitably are worse than the original problem.”

“Damn your consequences! Help her!”

“You love her, yet you let her believe you were dead all these years.” The old priest shook his head. “Strange pride you have.”

“I’ve done what you asked,” Porthios rasped. “I started a rebellion with a handful of followers against an enemy who commands thousands. We’ve achieved remarkable things. Must Alhana now die for the revolt to continue?”

The eyes in the friendly, jowly face sparkled with a strange inner light. “If I say yes?”

“Then I will die with her.”

“You must save your people.”

“Kerianseray can lead the rebellion, or Samar, or Nalaryn.”

“No one but you can do it.”

“Then heal her!” Porthios hissed, standing quickly. “You’re a god, aren’t you? It is within your power. Heal her, or I swear to you I will die with her this night!”

The priest’s body wavered and evaporated like smoke. One instant he was there; the next, he was not. Porthios stalked to where the old man had been. He opened his mouth, ready to shout denunciations and accusations to the sky, but the priest’s voice stopped him.

“Mind what you say, my proud friend.” He was back, standing near Alhana’s head, exactly where Porthios had been. “More ears than ours are listening, and some disapprove of my meddling.” Porthios managed a sharp, sarcastic laugh, and the old fellow added, “Yes, as you deduce, no one approves. Hence the guises and trappings I’m forced to hide behind.”

“I meant what I said. The choice is yours.”

“You would sacrifice your entire race for this one female?” Porthios folded his arms across his thin chest. The old human sighed. “Very well. But after tonight, you’ll not see me again for a time. I have too many irons in the fire.” The priest shifted his blackthorn staff from one hand to the other.

“Try to appreciate my subtlety, will you?” he said rather plaintively. “Even when you can’t understand it.”

He turned and walked back to the road.

“Is that all?” Porthios cried, incredulous.

The old priest looked back, the odd light glimmering again in his eyes. “What more did you wish?”

He vanished.