The Steward and the Sorcerer James Peart (read my book .TXT) 📖

was able to take some drink with us- the Asp did not contaminate the store of liquids- and salvaged what was left of the prepared food.”  He reached into the bag he wore slung over one shoulder and produced some cuts of dried meat and fruit wrapped in paper, portioning it out among the company.  The Englishmen ate heartily, taking great gulps of the liquid as it too was passed around.  The Druid slowly chewed his food, looking out through the entrance of the cave into the driving wind and sheeting rain.  When he had finished he washed down his meal with what remained of the water and put the flask back in his bag, then turned to the others.

“There is food enough for another day, water for two.  However, there is a town near here- Carasan- where we can replenish our supplies.  If the storm has passed by tomorrow morning we should reach it by mid-afternoon.”

That’s more time wasted, Simon thought.  However, he did not give voice to his objection.  Instead he asked “What kind of place is it?”

“It’s a trading town,” the other said, “filled for the most part with working people from Ara Fein, the region in which we are situated.  They are friendly to outsiders and will do business with us, exchanging what we have for food and drink.”

“I don’t mean to be dispiriting but what exactly do we have that’s of any value to them?”

“Leave that to me,” was all the Druid said.

The company slept poorly that night, the Englishmen turning frequently, unable to find a comfortable position on the bed of sparse plants and clay-like earth that floored the shelter.  Daaynan rested upright against a sheet of smooth rock, never quite asleep, one eye half lidded to keep watch against a potential intruder that might stumble into the cave.  They got up early the next morning to discover that the storm had indeed abated some- the wind had died down to a strong gust and the rain was intermittent and not as heavy.  They set out in the direction of Carasan, Daaynan leading a few paces ahead of the Englishmen.  The land carried that sterile look it always captured in the effect of a storm.  They passed vales and gorges that were completely flooded, selecting a route that detoured around impassable roadways littered with fallen trees and debris from wind-pitched dwellings.  The countryside they passed through had a barren, almost witchy beauty that drew everything into sharper focus, the early morning sun highlighting in red the sprawl of land that rolled to the horizon framed by hill summits and crisp verdant treetops.  Simon was relieved at first to be walking again- his muscles were tired and sore from sleeping on that hard surface and his bones ached.  He was sure Christopher was feeling the same but he hadn’t responded to several attempts to engage him in conversation.  His friend had withdrawn into himself, Simon noted, just like he had in Italy before all of this started.  It had been drink which did for him back then, it couldn’t be that now... .  Struck by a sudden terrible thought, he walked over to Christopher and clasped his hand on the other’s shoulder.  Christopher shrugged it off in irritation, continuing to walk, not bothering to glance around to see who had touched him.  Simon gripped him once more, moving alongside him, leaning in close to smell the other’s breath.  Whiskey!

“Where did you get it?” he hissed at Christopher.

“Let me alone!”

“Did you steal it from the castle?” Simon pressed.

“What do you care,” Christopher shrugged.

“You fool!  What if it was poisoned?”

The other Englishman sniffed.  “If it were I would be dead by now.  Besides, didn’t you hear the Druid?  Iridis only poisoned the store of food.  No liquids.”

“It was lucky for you that he did.  If this journey weren’t already difficult, you’re making it damn near impossible.  I can’t help Daaynan and take care of you as well.”

“Then don’t.  If it weren’t for your wanting to go on the Druid’s quest, we’d be home by now.”

Simon looked at Christopher, saw the conviction on the other’s face, and knew he was being serious.  He glanced over at Daaynan who was walking into the wind a dozen paces ahead of the young men.  “For your information, I did not want to go with him but he represents our best chance of getting back, despite what you may think.  The sticks are no good to us if all they can do is bring us back to the temple.  You know this.  We could have spent the rest of our lives searching for the right portal, or beam of light or whatever Christing thing might lead us back to the world.”

“We used the sticks to find the Brightsphere,” his friend countered, his voice loaded with sense (and a lucidity possessed only by drunks, Simon thought, disliking himself for doing so), “what makes you think we couldn’t have done the same with our portal?”

He went silent.  He had no immediate answer for this aside from the fact that he thought, no, he felt in his gut that it would not have worked.  “I think, perhaps,” he said finally, “the Drey torch sticks only work on living things.”

“The Brightsphere is an elemental,” Christopher stated primly, “made up of the elements of life, not life itself, and as for the beams, they were alive with light and more powerful than any form of life you or I know of.”

“So,” Simon mused, “you would destroy my argument in the first case and build a case for it in the second.  That’s what I get for talking to a Cambridge philosophy major.”

They stared hard at each other, their eyes narrowed to slits, each one poised, ready to counter what the other said next.  The next moment they were laughing.  “Give me some of that whiskey,” Simon asked.  The other hesitated a fraction, as if weighing some swift internal decision, then produced a small bottle from inside his