The Book of Terrus: Rising Tides, Falling Stars

Chapter 8 - The Mystery of Love

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The campfire had long since burned down to embers, leaving Reyson sitting up alone in the turquoise glow of the night. They had made camp for the evening beside a pool of quiet water, cradled in a bowl of sharp shale from which trees grew at chaotic angles. Black roots curled around the rocks like talons, dark and sharp, in search of soft soil to sink their fingertips into. Some even twisted together, twinning trees into two halves of a whole. Sonak had remarked that this place was known as Iko's Pool, and that it meant they would reach the main gates of Hashodi before day's end tomorrow.

A log popped from amidst the ashes, momentarily distracting Reyson's attention. Realizing that he'd been sitting in the same position for nearly an hour, Reyson took the excuse to stand and stretch. His shoulder throbbed in protest, drawing a wince as he readjusted the arm in its sling. Lhara had done a good job putting the dislocated joint back in place, but Reyson wasn't as young as he once was, and it would take some time for the ligaments to heal. He smiled sardonically down at the sword hanging from his left hip. With his right arm out of commission for the foreseeable future, the blade would probably be of more use on Yidu's hip...or even Jath's.

A sharp tch tch came from a branch overhead; the sound of little claws digging into old bark. Pursing his lips, Reyson spotted one of The Night Forest's resident squirrels peering down at him with too-large black eyes.

"Do me a favour and find something else to stare at."

Far from being deterred, the squirrel seemed quite content to remain where it was, the silhouette of its tail twitching in the phosphorescent light. Reyson debated stooping down to find a pebble, but the potential for jostling his shoulder again outweighed any satisfaction that target practice might bring.

"Fine. See if I care then."

A light sigh and a rustle from the lumpy sleeping roll that was Konnah forced Reyson to limit any further commentary on the squirrel's presence to annoyed glares. Their northerner guides were, as a family, exceptionally light sleepers. Lhara on the other hand was all but drooling on the collar of her cloak. Leave it to one of the mountainfolk to be right at home in just about any wilderness.

With another hour on watch until it was Turak's turn, Reyson returned to his seat on a half-rotted log at the edge of the campsite. With all seemingly quiet – not even a ripple interrupted the black, mirrorlike face of Iko's Pool – the call of his sketchbook and charcoals was simply too strong to resist. Sketching on the midnight watch came with the added benefit of no glib commentary from a certain pale-faced Vaelonese nobleman.

The sketchbook fell open to the half-finished portrait of Ebn, just barely workable in the dim glow of the trees. Reyson could practically hear the voice of his mother, surfacing from the long-discarded depths of memory, chiding him not to ruin his eyes by drawing without proper light. Accuracy wasn't the point of this particularly portrait though. Rather, Reyson's gaze barely focused on the page as he let his well-practiced hands do their work, driven by the emotions in his heart rather than the images in his mind.

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"You must have been born at sea."

The statement - so full of certainty despite Ebn knowing essentially nothing about his past - caught Reyson off guard. Feet balanced like tightrope walkers on nothing but rigging, arms full of sail, leaning against the topgallant yard hundreds of feet above The StormRider's deck, most people would have written off a sudden feeling of vertigo as a product of circumstance. For Reyson, however, the odd clenching in his gut had less to do with heights and more to do with the intense curiosity with which the FirstMate was studying him.