Don Bassingthwaite - The Grieving Tree

The old man snorted. “She’s just what Chuut said-a pest. A thorn in Tzaryan’s side. Have you ever heard of the Kech Volaar? They’re a clan of hobgoblins in Darguun. They consider themselves the protectors of the glory of the lost Dhakaani Empire. Usually you don’t find them much outside of Darguun, but Ekhaas has appointed herself as guardian of Dhakaani ruins in this part of Droaam.” He nodded along the road in the direction of their destination. “That includes the ruins near Tzaryan Keep. Your interest in them probably attracted her attention.”

“What’s going to happen to her?” Dandra asked.

“It will likely depend on Tzaryan Rrac’s mood when we arrive. What Chuut said was no idle threat-Tzaryan has warned her to stay away. The Kech Volaar carries no weight here.” Robrand took another sip of wine. His dark eyes watched them over the rim of his goblet and when he lowered the vessel, he wasn’t smiling. “But we’re drifting from my problem,” he said seriously. “Tzaryan is my master and you’re approaching him under false pretenses.”

Singe shifted uncomfortably under his former commander’s sharp-eyed gaze. “Not all that false,” he said. He glanced at Dandra, then back to Robrand. This was more than just a reunion. If he handled this right, they would have an unexpected ally in Tzaryan Keep. “If I tell you what’s going on-the truth of it-will you help us?”

“You know better than to ask that, Etan. You’re an old friend, but you’d be asking me to turn against a contract.”

“You’re not part of House Deneith anymore, old man,” Singe reminded him. He gestured to the ogres outside the pavilion. “Do you think the lords of Deneith would have approved this?”

Robrand’s eyes narrowed. “I didn’t leave Deneith,” he said. “Deneith abandoned me. Tzaryan gives me something like what I used to have. He respects me. He doesn’t try to forget that I exist.” He set his goblet down and frowned, then looked up again. “I can’t promise to help you, but for the memory of the Frostbrand, I won’t give you away either-so long as whatever you’re doing poses no danger to Tzaryan Rrac or Tzaryan Keep.”

“It doesn’t. You have my word.” He drew a breath and began their story with the one detail that the old man needed to know whether he was going to help them or not. He owed that much to a friend. “Robrand, your nephew Toller is dead. He died defending a hamlet called Bull Hollow in the Eldeen Reaches, but he’s dead because of a man named Dah’mir.”

Robrand listened just as Singe had known he would, saying nothing and absorbing everything. Singe considered leaving things out of the story-Robrand would understand that there were things he couldn’t share-but found that he couldn’t. He laid everything before his one-time commander. When he finished, the circle within Robrand’s pavilion was silent. Robrand closed his eyes as he had after every battle Singe had fought at his side, committing the names and faces of the dead to memory. It was, the wizard knew, his way of mourning.

“Toller would have made a great commander, Robrand,” he said after a long moment. “He died too soon.”

Robrand drew a deep breath and opened his eyes again. “We die when it’s our time. No sooner and no later. It’s how we die that’s important. Toller died well. I think he must have had a good teacher.” He stood and offered Singe his hand. “I trust you, Etan. I’ll help you however I can.”

Dandra could scarcely believe that Robrand d’Deneith was the same man she had ridden with the first day out of Vralkek. The man she had known as the General had been dour and tight with words. Robrand was charming, talkative, and pleasant. She knew that it had been an act intended to deceive Singe and Geth, but Robrand’s self control was still remarkable. He was a joy to be around. Over the next three days, he spent most of his time talking with Singe, swapping shared reminiscences and stories of the things they had seen and done in the years since they had last been together, but he also opened up to all of them. He talked with her about her experiences, discussed business with Natrac, and made the most of what little common ground he shared with Orshok. He even attempted to address Tetkashtai-an attempt the presence answered with a terse response that earned her a laugh from Robrand but the mental equivalent of a glare from Dandra.

The old man was particularly interested, however, in Ashi. “I had a feeling that you were Deneith the moment I saw you,” he told the hunter.

Singe’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “How could you possibly have known?”

“The members of House Deneith may be spread wide across Khorvaire, Etan, but we still share ties of blood.” Robrand took Ashi’s chin between his fingers and tilted her face up. “She has a Deneith jaw, Deneith eyes.”

Ashi flushed “Isn’t a dragonmark the only way to know for certain?” she asked.

“It’s one way, but not the only way. There are rites of divination that will confirm it, though I can tell you their results now: you are Deneith.” He patted her shoulders in a fatherly gesture and Ashi’s pierced lips stretched into a smile.

After that, she and Robrand spent a part of every day talking together as he told her something of life as part of the great house. In spite of an obvious distaste for Deneith, the old commander’s eyes took on a wistful nostalgia when he spoke of past heroes and ancient glories. Dandra could tell that he still had pride in his house’s history.

One night, as she and Singe watched, he even stripped off his shirt and showed Ashi his dragonmark. The Mark of Sentinel covered his age-softened chest, a colorful pattern like a tattoo but far more vivid and elaborate. Ashi stared at it in wonder. “It’s bigger than I thought it might be,” she said. “Did it hurt?”

“Hurt?” Robrand blinked in surprise. “Dol Dorn’s fist, no. A dragonmark only looks like a tattoo. This is a part of me. When it first manifested, it was smaller-dragonmarks grow as bearers learn to channel their powers. My power is only middling.” He slipped his shirt back on. “The most powerful dragonmarks-the Marks of Siberys-are supposed to cover their bearers from head to toe.”

“The lords of the dragonmarked houses must be astounding to see,” Ashi said in awe.

Singe hadn’t been able to suppress a laugh at the hunter’s wonder. Robrand gave him a disapproving glance-and Ashi a shake of his head. “The lords of the houses gain power through skill and guile, not the strength of their marks. The Marks of Siberys may be powerful, but they’re rare. My mother used to tell stories of meeting an old gnome of House Sivis who carried the Siberys Mark of Scribing. He could draw a magical symbol of such power that it would kill anyone who looked on it but he was virtually a slave to his house.”

Ashi looked confused. Robrand gave her a brittle, bitter smile. “You have a lot to learn about the dragonmarked houses, Ashi. You may wish you’d stayed in the Shadow Marches.”

For all that the rest of them found companionship in Robrand, however, there was one person left out of the old man’s pleasant circle. Geth took to riding apart from the rest of them, a little ahead of the column of ogres, silently but blatantly avoiding Robrand. As far as Dandra could tell, though, it was a mutual avoidance. Geth stayed away from Robrand and Robrand made no move to reach out to Geth.

Unfortunately, the shifter also took to keeping his distance from the rest of them, and the more withdrawn he became, the more tempting it was-in spite of what all of them had been through together-to spend time with Robrand instead, listening to his stories. Over three days, though, Dandra noticed something else as well. Among all the stories that Robrand and Singe swapped between themselves, they never mentioned Narath, and it seemed to her that if they ever got close to it, one or the other of them would glance toward Geth and quickly change the subject.