Far from dropping it, the big man raised the big weapon, and Garin stepped back, wincing as he waited for Bran's head to cave in.
"Kald!"
The hammer's shaft burst into flames.
The brigand stiffened in surprise, then howled and threw his hammer to the ground, staring at his charred hands. "Yuldor's fucking balls!"
Bran shrugged, not seeming the least alarmed. "I warned you, didn't I? Now, I only ever mastered a few cantrips. Imagine what this fellow next to me will do if you stick around. Let's see… How about I give you until five? One—"
The brigands were bolting before he'd finished the first count, disappearing back into the forest. Only the big brigand remained.
"Same goes for you," Bran reminded him. "Two—"
The man eyed his still-burning hammer on the road, then growled a curse and made for the forest at a lumbering run.
Garin stared, open-mouthed, at his companions. "Who are you?" he whispered.
The chicken farmer — who was no chicken farmer, Garin knew all too well now — had gathered a solemn look again. "Exactly as I said. A deserter. A failed warlock. And many more half-realized roles." He glanced at Aelyn. "Sorry about the hat."
The mage had bent to retrieve his pointed hat and was brushing irritably at a bit of horse dung that had crusted onto it. "I very much doubt you are," he snapped as he fixed the hat back on his head, ears tucked into it.
Bran shrugged. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't also amused."
"Why did you let them go?" The question burst from Garin.
Aelyn eyed Bran as well.
The man looked between them. "Many reasons. In my experience, violence should always be a last resort. Men who use it too quickly, like our would-be smith here—" he gestured at the hammer "—get themselves in far more trouble than out of it. But more pertinent here…" He looked off down the road. "Acting the brigand, too, I can claim in my past."
Something was stirring in Garin's stomach. Hunger, yes, and a bit of the need to relieve himself. But under that, the warm glow of awe, and the cold shiver of fear.
"Who are you?" he asked again.
"You'll learn soon enough, and regret that you did."
"Enough," Aelyn cut in. "We must walk miles yet before we make camp to be sure we're far from those fools."
Garin's stomach grumbled, but he followed as the elven mage set a quick pace across the bridge. He was tired, and scared, and still had to piss. But one thing had left, he realized. No longer did he wonder if he should stay or go.
For better or worse, he'd made his decision to follow the road where it willed him. Even if he still didn't know the first thing about those he traveled with.
The Ruins of Erlodan
When the evening of the sixth day began to fade, Aelyn glanced at Bran with his strange, copper eyes. "We must make a detour here."
Bran looked away, studying Garin to buy time. After their run-in with the brigands, the young man had taken to doing his part by setting up camp with an avidity that puzzled him. Perhaps, he mused, that fire cantrip had done a little magic for the boy's doubts as well as the big bandit.
He turned back to find Aelyn still watching him and reluctantly answered. "I thought you'd want to make all haste for Halenhol. The King's summons and all that bilge."
"This is in the spirit of the King's orders, as I'm sure you've guessed."
"Perhaps I have."
But though he hadn't, the truth came to him a moment later, and his stomach clenched. "Are we traveling a day north to the top of an abandoned hill?"
Aelyn nodded. "The Ruins of Erlodan, they call it these days. A high name for a low place."
"That's the truth behind most high names, in my experience."
The elf narrowed his eyes. "All elven places possess high names."
Bran flashed him a smile. "I couldn't mean those, surely."
Anger flared in the mage's eyes, and Bran's grin grew wider. A prickly lot, elves, and mages the thorniest of the lot.
"Why didn't you go on the way to picking me up?"
Aelyn's eyes had tempered down to their usual subdued bronze. "I wouldn't have had the requisite sacrifice then, would I?"
They stared at each other in silence.
Bran cracked a grin. "For a moment, I thought you were serious."
The elf still didn't smile. "Perhaps I am."
"In that case, I have the perfect candidate. I hear from the Creed that the more rotten a person's heart, the hotter they burn when they descend to Night's Pyres."
Aelyn shook his head. "Jest while you still can. You won't feel so jovial once we reach the ruins."
Bran turned away. "I wouldn't count on it."
The trek, however, proved Aelyn right. Bran's mood took a dip as they slogged through bog after sticking bog, his boots filling with muddy, cold water and his nose full of the swamp's stink.
Beside him, Garin looked yet more miserable, for though he was adjusting to the rigors of the road, he was far from adapted.
As much to take his mind off the misery as Garin's, Bran asked, "Doing alright, lad?"
The youth glanced over with a raised eyebrow. "What do you think?"
"Nothing like a detour through a swamp, eh?"
"What are we going here for, anyway?"
Bran shrugged. "You'll have to ask our fearless leader."
Garin glared at Aelyn's back, twenty strides ahead of them. "What's he about, anyway? I know he's the Gladelysh emissary to King Aldric and serving the Avendoran Crown on his Queen's orders. But why's he so…?" The youth seemed to be hunting for the right word.
"Foul?" Bran suggested.
He grinned sheepishly. "More or less."
Bran glanced toward the mage. "I'm the last person who would make excuses for him, but… he's had a hard life."
Garin's eyebrows raised.
"When he was a babe," Bran continued, "a rival kinhouse claimed a brutal revenge for an old vendetta. His parents, his siblings, everyone in his extended family were killed, and he was left an orphan."
"How did he survive?"
"Elves have different ways of doing things than us. A child is given many different 'mothers,' we'll call them — not only for their benefit but to strengthen the ties between kinhouses. At the time of his family's murders, Aelyn was in the care of an allied family, and so he avoided their fate."
Garin was looking at the back of the mage with a different expression now. "What happened to him?"
"That family chose to foster him, as good as adopting him, though in the elven way, Aelyn kept his name."
"Cloudtouched?"
"That's the translation into Reachtongue. In Gladelyshi, it's Belnuure."
Garin shrugged. "No worse than my family name, Dunford, I suppose."
And mine, Bran thought. "But Aelyn's woes don't end there. Though he was raised by allies, the oldest brother of the family didn't appreciate an outsider suddenly adopted as kin. Thus, he made sure to make Aelyn constantly feel an outsider in his own home, and despite the sister's efforts otherwise, his childhood was full of strife."