Spectre of the Black Rose by James Lowder

Author:James Lowder [Lowder, James]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-7869-6343-0
Publisher: Wizards of the Coast Publishing
Published: 2012-06-19T04:00:00+00:00

NINE

A chill lingered with Ganelon long after his meeting with Soth and the Cobbler. It wasn’t the harbinger of some sickness. Neither sunlight nor a fire’s warmth could lessen the sensation. By his third day in the Fumewood, he came to think of it as an icy shroud that had enwrapped his soul, one he could not shake off.

Thoughts of Helain only seemed to make the pall cling to him more fiercely. The Cobbler had called her “mad,” not “sick” or “distracted” or any of the other euphemisms Ambrose and the others used. Ganelon knew that the mysterious man had been correct.

That fact didn’t disturb him as much as it once would have. The whole world seemed mad now, full of walking dead men and living nightmares. Since no creature in the wilderness had so much as sniffed around his camp since that first night, Ganelon had to wonder if he, too, might not be crazed. That was what the Cobbler had said, wasn’t it? “The things in the Fumewood give the mad a wide berth.”

No, Ganelon could cope with Helain’s madness and had no trouble envisioning himself caring for her. He still loved her, after all. What saddened him was the growing certainty that he had played some part in bringing on the insanity. Perhaps she’d mistrusted his promise to curb his wanderlust. Fear that her one true love would leave her might have driven her mad.

As he looked around him now, at the expanse of stunted pine that marked the vague border between the Fumewood and the Iron Hills, Ganelon could not deny the quickening in his blood. The Cobbler had told him that an adventurous life was his destiny. He’d even killed someone else to set Ganelon back on that path.

A ragged sigh escaped Ganelon’s lips. He was on the right road, but it was a lonely one. All the times he’d wandered off from the mine, Ambrose and Kern and Ogier had known where he was going. It was a sort of game they played. He dropped hints in between demands to be left to his own devices. They carefully noted his plans, all the while grumbling about being kept in the dark. Ganelon’s friends thought of themselves as safety lines, like the ones the miners used down in the pit when someone explored a newly discovered cave. It was a role they treasured.

They couldn’t pull him back to safety now, though. No one could.

Ganelon glanced up at the late afternoon sky, swiftly darkening to match his mood’s grim hue. Rain was on its way, and soon. For the hundredth time that afternoon, he cursed himself for his hasty departure from the shop. He’d managed to compensate for most of the things he’d left without. Soon after parting ways with the Cobbler, he had literally stumbled across a hunk of timber suitable for a club. The clanking of his brace prevented him from sneaking up on any small game and putting the makeshift weapon to use, but he knew enough woodlore to keep his stomach filled with roots and berries.

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