Chris Pierson - Dezra's Quest

I know how it feels, he thought with a wry chuckle.

He could only remember flashes of what had happened after Dezra felled Grimbough. He recalled the soothing touch of the Forestmaster's horn, the sound of his daughter's voice, the gentleness with which the others had lifted him onto Trephas's back. The ride back to Lysandon was a blur; between leaving Grimbough's vale and meeting Arhedion's scouts in the highlands, he only knew flashes of trees and the music of Borlos's lyre.

He'd stayed in Lysandon since his return. The unicorn's magic had saved him from death, nothing more. Recovering his strength took time. He'd longed to go home, worrying that Tika and Laura would think he was dead, but he'd quickly learned not to push himself too hard. Barely a week after returning, he'd collapsed after stubbornly trying to rise and walk out of his hut. That had put enough of a scare into him to make him stay put until the horsefolk's chirurgeons told him otherwise.

There had been celebrations, of course, when the companions returned. Every night, for more than a week, the mountains surrounding the town had echoed with song and laughter. There'd been games, a ritual hunt, feasting and dancing. Caramon had missed most of the merrymaking, but Borlos had played for him, and Dezra had snuck him a bit of venison from the stag she'd brought down in the hunt. That had helped.

Fanuin, Ellianthe, and the rest of the sprites had left soon after the festivities ended, flitting off into the forest to return to their hidden realm. Caramon had been certain his daughter would follow. Borlos clearly enjoyed staying with the centaurs, but Dezra, he was sure, would take her money and go. To his surprise, however, she'd remained, and had even checked in on him several times a day. She didn't fuss over him, but she was there.

At first, he'd thought she stayed because of Trephas. He was convinced the two had trysted together the night Soulsplitter was stolen, and that it was continuing now. But he'd learned he was wrong. Since their return, Trephas had spent much of his time with Lanorica, the chief of the Ebon Lance tribe. Finally, a month ago, he'd promised himself to her in marriage, placing a wreath of willow withes upon her head as was the horsefolk's custom.

Dezra didn't seem to mind. "Centaurs and humans don't make good matches anyway," she'd told Caramon the morning after the betrothal. Then she'd winked. "And besides, there's plenty of men in the world."

The rest of Caramon's time in Lysandon had passed with little event. Three weeks ago, the healers had let him rise from his bed, but he was still weak and couldn't walk far. Since then, he'd fought to build his strength. Now, at last, he could move about without tiring, though he still had to use a walking stick and would need to for some time. Still, he was capable of travel. And so, at last, it was time to go.

He heard a scuff behind him: boots on stone. He didn't turn, his eyes on the forest. "What is it, girl?" he asked.

Dezra stopped several paces behind him. "What do you think?" she asked, irritated. "I've been looking all over for you. Everyone's waiting at the Yard."

Caramon nodded. He took a deep breath, then turned to face her. "Well, then," he said. "I guess we'd better get going."

He hobbled to her, leaning on his stick. She didn't offer him her arm, and he didn't ask. They walked back toward Lysandon side by side.

The Circle of Four stood in the midst of the Yard of Gathering when Caramon and Dezra arrived. There were others with them, too: Trephas and Arhedion, and Borlos as well. Caramon and Dezra paused at the meadow's edge to partake of the grass, then walked across the field.

"I'm sorry I've kept you," Caramon said.

"Nay, don't trouble thyself for us," said Gyrtomon. He'd settled into his father's place in the Circle, and carried himself with a chieftain's bearing. "If we're anxious, it's because the day grows old, and the way to Solace is long."

The other chiefs nodded. "We'll do something to shorten that journey, if thou wilt have it," said Eucleia. "Trephas and Arhedion will carry the two of thee to the Haven Road."

Caramon inclined his head. "Thanks," he said, then frowned. "Wait… two of us?" He turned to Dezra. "You're staying?"

"Not her," said Borlos. "Me."

"You?" Caramon echoed, astounded. "Why?"

"Why not?" the bard replied. "I was bored in Solace anyway, and with Olinia gone, these people need a minstrel. I figure I'll hang around here… or Ithax, rather, when they rebuild it in the spring. I'll take on a couple of apprentices, and when I've taught them enough to take my place, I'll go back to Pallidice's grove."

"The dryad?" Dezra asked, her eyes widening. "You're going to live with her ?"

Borlos shrugged. "Partly, yes. And in Gwethyryn too. Before they left, the sprites said I was welcome to go back. I want to live there-for a few years, at least."

"A few years…" Caramon's brow furrowed. "But, with the way time flows there-"

"I'll be gone a long while, yeah," Borlos said. "Maybe centuries, if I return at all." He spread his hands. "Don't think this is easy for me, big guy. But I was happy there, like I've never known before. Would you turn your back on that, if you didn't have a family to go home to?"

Caramon met the bard's gaze for a long moment, then shook his head. "I guess not. It's going to be a little less fun at the Inn without you around to play for us, though. And Clemen and Osier will be sorry to lose their third player."

"We should get going," Dezra said, glancing skyward. "I'd like to be on the Haven Road before it gets dark."

Caramon looked at her sourly, but in the end he nodded. "Sure," he said. "Unless there's anything else?"

"As a matter of fact, there is," Pleuron declared. He bent down, his belly bulging, and lifted a large sack and a smaller bundle from the ground. He tossed the sack to Dezra: it landed, jingling, at her feet. "Thy reward, as we agreed-and another five hundred pieces of steel with it, as thanks for thy help when things grew darkest."

Dezra picked it up, flashing her lopsided grin. "Thanks," she said.

Smiling broadly, Pleuron held out the smaller bundle. "A gift for thee, Caramon," he said, "for all thou lost, or nearly lost."

Caramon stared at the bundle a moment, then hobbled forward and took it. It was large and heavy, wrapped in oiled burlap. Slowly, he unwrapped the cloth, then caught his breath at what lay beneath.

It was a warrior's helm, simply crafted of bronze. Atop it was a long, flowing tassel. The hairs it was made of were of many colors-jet black and iron gray, reddish brown and ash blond.

"We gathered," Gyrtomon said, "that thou needed a new helmet. Trephas suggested we make thee one."

Trephas grinned. "The tassel's from our tails… all of us."

Caramon gaped at it, then looked up at the Circle. "I-I have no words," he said softly.

"You need none," Eucleia replied. "Thou and thy daughter are friends to our people, Caramon Majere. The helm is so thou wilt remember us, as we shall remember thee."

Despite his best efforts to hold them back, tears came to Caramon's eyes. He took the helm from its bundle and placed it on his head. It fit well.

"Thank the vanished gods," Dezra quipped. "I was getting tired of staring at your bald patch."

Trephas and Arhedion came forward, and knelt before them. Dezra swung up on the chestnut's back, and Caramon got astride the scout. They rose, turning one last time to face the Circle. Borlos and the chiefs raised their hands in farewell. Caramon waved in reply, then Trephas and Arhedion wheeled and trotted away. The tassel of Caramon's helmet fluttered behind him as he rode.

Once away from Lysandon, they rode northwest through the mountains, leaving behind the red-gold sea of Darken Wood. The sun, which had been nearing its zenith when they set out, climbed slowly down the blue, cloud-dotted sky. Finally, when it was hanging low and large before them, the path began to descend. Soon the lowlands stretched ahead, and the broad, brown line of Haven Road.