Chapter 20: The Promise

"In Aranoch, Aranoch gold,

The sands of time, so coarse, so bold;

Where morns are warm and nights are cold,

Where tales of treasures and tombs are told."

Saul was annoyed.

Twilight had descended upon the deserts; upon the borders of their makeshift camp. The night winds were beginning to increase in strength and speed—it encircled the travellers' feet, creating clouds of sand and dust in shades of gold and grey. Up above in the cloudless sky, the crescent moon lay aglow, lending what light she could to the relative darkness of the desert terrain beneath her. It was a cold night, and the druid had little doubt as to whether their conditions would worsen.

It all served only to annoy him further.

"Have you got the fire started yet, Master Saul?"

He scowled. "No."

Deckard Cain was relentless in his nagging—but to the druid, he was also none other than insufferably intolerable. "You'd best get started soon. The night will get colder, and the beasts will begin to shadow our steps before long. If the fire is not ready by then, they will attack."

"I'd like to believe that a druid of Scosglen knows more of the wilderness than you." Saul countered flatly. The heat of his cheeks and neck were tell-tale signs of the rage-fueled flush rising upon his face. "And if you want a fire started two seconds after picking a campsite, perhaps you should start it instead."

A gentle, warm hand upon his shoulder alerted him that Cordelia had alighted the caravan—she released a languid, low laugh, then shook her crimson tresses from her travel-braid. "He only asks it of you, Saul, because Warriv is ill, and because I am a mere woman." She leaned over his shoulder just then, and, quietly—"I vote to leave him behind whilst he's asleep tonight. Maybe his wild beasts will devour him."

Saul could barely contain the smirk of mild amusement that came upon his lips as the sorceress walked away—then turned to watch the elder mage rather dubiously. But he had not heard. Truth be told, the druid had little idea as to whether relief, or disappointment was the correct reaction. Some part of him half wished the mage to know his distaste—the other half reprimanded the impatience within him.

He grumbled vaguely under his breath—then tugged a pile of firewood from the caravan. It was definitely one of those days.

The sun had barely begun his journey scross the skies when Saul found himself awakened—he was parched. The last remnants of their fire flickered lifelessly to and from life, and every breath of air brought with it the humid, spicy flavour of Aranoch. Rubbing gently at his eyes, he pushed himself upright—then tugged his water-skin to him. The first cool draught of water felt like ice in his veins, but the sensation was not unpleasant. If anything, it served only to numb the soreness of his chapped and cracked lips.

Somewhere deep within the caravan, Deckard Cain released a low, rumbling cough, before falling silent once more. He was clearly still asleep, as was the caravan-master. Normally, Cordelia would have taken one of the two collapsible bunks within shelter—but Warriv had been taken ill, and she'd had just enough compassion and respect to offer the other to the eldest of the group. Saul didn't much mind the arrangement of bedding—he found himself in better spirits than ever in the company of the sorceress, as opposed to that of the former two. It was so, that they'd spent their nights huddled together by the fire, their backs to one another.

"Are you awake already?"

Saul blinked, then canted his head ever so slightly. "As are you."

Cordelia chuckled grimly, shaking her head just a touch. "I'm a light sleeper."

He smiled, stiffling a yawn as he leaned forward towards her. The scorching heat of the desert had, too, made its mark upon the sorceress—no longer was she fair and pale. Her skin had acquired a vaguely bronze tone to it—and her lips, too, were chapped. Her hair looked somewhat odd, limp beneath weeks' worth of oily buildup. Water was scarcely found in such a terrain, and little could be spared for matters of personal hygiene. But she was beautiful, still, to the druid—even when she began to scowl.

"What are you staring at?"

Saul laughed. "Nothing."

She crossed her arms, drawing her legs to her chest, pale blue eyes narrowed. "My hair is matted to my scalp, my clothes are sand-covered, and I don't even want to think of having to look in the mirror. Now stop looking at me."

"I never said you looked awful." He grinned—but he looked away. "In fact, compared to Deckard Cain—"

"—you cannot seriously be comparing me to him." Cordelia looked somewhat mutinous for a second. But then she crooked a vague smile. "My hair, at the very least, is prettier than his."

"He's got no hair, Cordy..." Saul smirked—and half a moment later, was gladdened to see her throw her head back and laugh. He had not witnessed such a sight in many, many moons. The sorceress had been naught but moody and somber as of late. The sudden change in attitude was more than enough to worry the druid; he had never known a woman to be so unreasonably gloomy at the best of times. But she was smiling now, and that, Saul reasoned, was reason enough to breathe.

They were silent just then, each absorbed in thoughts of their own. It happened oftener than ever now; uncomfortable pauses in conversation that the druid thought could not end soon enough. Perhaps the sands of Aranoch had that effect upon the sorceress—or perhaps it was the thought of the Jewel city that lay in wait for them, now a mere half day away. Sometimes, the druid thought he could see a glimmer—a hint of fear lingering within her eyes. But why fear?

Either way, Saul found himself at a complete loss when it came to understanding just what it was that made the sorceress impartial to their destination. What manner of chains bound Cordelia against Lut Gholein?

What?

"So."

Saul started—then chuckled vaguely under his breath as he shifted slightly. "Hrm?"

"I know that look, Saul. What's on your mind?" Cordelia made a face. "Out with it."

"At present?" He blinked. And then, with innocent eyes—"Nothing."

She scowled. "Liar."

"My pantaloons aren't on fire just yet." Saul countered, grinning. "But—ach!" He ducked, a bright blue arc of flames narrowly missing his left ear.

"They were close enough to it." Cordelia was clearly unphased—perhaps she'd had much practice setting things on fire. She gave the druid a small, somewhat devious smile, then set to work examining her fingernails with all the snooty airs of an arrogant wench. "Very close."

Saul made a face, rubbing mildly at the side of his head as he examined her closely. "I'd never known you to be this unkind."

She laughed, but did not turn to face him. Instead, she leaned forwards—then clasped her legs close against her chest. "I wouldn't have hit you."

"I know."

The silence hung thick about them once more—a fog to shield thoughts and companionship. Saul found himself gazing over towards the sorceress every few seconds; but she did not meet his gaze, nor did she speak. The whole ordeal puzzled the druid to an extent, but he did not break the silence. Instead, sighing softly, he mirrored his companion's posture, hugging his legs against his chest. Several minutes passed—and only then did he turn to gaze at her once more.

"Cordy."

The sun began to rise—and it was evident, now, that there was fear in her eyes. He saw her lower lip twitch ever so slightly, and for a moment or two, she looked as if she would certainly begin to cry. "Hrm?"

"At some point, you're going to have to tell me what's wrong with you." Saul began—he hoped his voice was firm. It certainly didn't feel so, at the very least, but the look in her eyes was quite enough to turn his strength into water.

She smiled—albeit somewhat sadly. "Naught slips past you." It was not a question.

"No." He agreed. "I—won't force you into telling me, Cordy. But—well, you should know that my shoulder's always available." He crooked a small smile. "You know. If you ever need one to cry on."

"I know."

Saul nodded once, then sighed. His worry had not abandoned him, as was the same, with Cordelia's troubles.

"Saul." Her voice was but a small murmur.

"Hrm?" He turned to face her once more, but she did not return his probing gaze. In fact, by all accounts, she clear avoided his eyes, as if the mere sight of them would burn her irises to ash.

"I'm sorry."

"Halt, travelers! Alight and declare yourselves."

Saul frowned his distaste—but had little choice in the matter, so to speak. He bit back the somewhat scathing remark upon his lips, then slipped lightly off the drivers' seat onto golden sands. Before the caravan, the two mares shifted uneasily, one dappled grey, and the other brown-and-beige. Their movements were heavy upon the sand, causing clouds of dust and sand to arise about the feet of the travelers.

For her part, Cordelia conducted herself with more grace than was necessary—and it was with an exceedingly neutral expression that she'd lifted her skirts, then stepped delicately off her seat onto the ground, making only little more sound than an ant, itself, was capable of.

Saul found himself eyeing her wearily; she had said naught to him since they'd left their makeshift encampment, thus increasing his worry of her. True, the sorceress had been much less than her capricious self as of late—but there seemed something else within her now. It was as though she were loathe to enter the city, and yet, resigned to it at the same time.

It made no sense at all, to the druid.

"I declare myself Cordelia Elisse Cyrix, tia-aldyn of the Medjai."

Saul blinked—then slanted yet another glance towards the sorceress. There was a somewhat haughty tone to her voice; she spoke with authority. The thought was somewhat unnerving—there was clearly more to her than she had chosen to show the druid.

With a pang in the depths of his belly, Saul came to realise that there was much, after all, that he did not know of her. At that precise moment, she felt a stranger to him.

Saul cleared his throat. "I declare myself Saul Vyreant of the druid clan of Crëthe Daiore. Traveling with us are two of Entsteig and Westmarch—Warriv, our karavan master, who is just now ill within—" He made a gesture towards the caravan. "—and Deckard Cain, of the Horadrim."

The man, he saw, was young—perhaps twenty years of age. But he did not bear the crest of Lut Gholein, nor the darkened skin of the desert locals. Instead, he was fair—fairer, at the very least, when compared to the natives, and his hair was gold. Upon his shield and chest were an emblem; a golden helm beset with garnets and lengthened feathers—a mercenary. Wary eyes of deepest blue studied them carefully, pausing several long moments upon the sorceress.

And then he smiled, bending at the waist ever so slightly. "You are most welcome to Lut Gholein, fair maiden of the Medjai. And I am honoured indeed to be in the presence of so fine a warrior, Master Vyreant. The tales of Andariel's defeat at your hands has reached us, even here."

"I did not battle the demoness on my own. The victory belongs to three others besides myself, one of which stands before you now." Saul said, grimly. The muscles within his clenched jaw felt somewhat stiff—he did not much like the mercenary.

"Ah, aye. I have heard." Said the other. "Please, do forgive my rudeness. I am Jhennan—and I am come in the command of the Prince, to gain you entry into the city. Long have we awaited your arrival, Lady Cyrix."

Something flickered within the depths of the druid's head. "Surely you cannot mean Cordelia? Surely not?" His voice was flat; he felt somewhat anxious.

Jhennan blinked, but if he was surprised, he did not show much more. His face was masklike—almost unreadable, as he extended an arm towards the hitherto silent sorceress. "Come."

Cordelia pursed her lips and exhaled—but she did not take the offered hand. At the questioning look upon the druid's face, she started; but slowly, and quietly shook her head. "Not now, Saul." The murmured words were soft. Then she turned towards the mercenary once more, throwing her crimson cloak, with unquestionable aloofness, over her shoulders. "Where waits your Prince?"

Jhennan led them through a marketplace of sorts. The men and women bustled to and fro, calling out offers set upon their wares. Pheasants and game hung from ropes above stalls, upon which great, wooden slabs; chopping boards, rested. A corner stall was laid full of fish and marine edibles, large and small, freshly-caught and salt-preserved. Saul watched as the fishmonger gutted a small carp, then turned his head to other sights. Fruit and vegetable were rare; the desert terrain allowed little more than a mere handful of seeds to flourish to full growth. As such, the people of Lut Gholein lived as they could, on what they could depend on.

But at the very least, the water was good. The wells ran deep into the earth, and the water within was clean and fresh. That much could be depended upon.

At length, they found themselves at the water's edge. The great blue sea—Gyurahn, lay crystalline before their eyes. The salty tang of the sea hung heavy in the air, now, but the druid found that it did not trouble him much. Such scents were the scents of freedom. Many a great ship lay anchored within the waters by the harbour, their sailors and captains lounging in the sun by the decks. The sails were many—black, grey, and white. None bore the royal crest of Lut Gholein.

Traders' ships.

It was just as this realization settled upon him that Saul found himself jerked harshly back into the vestiges of reality. He heard voices. Loud voices. Loud voices of angry men.

"Well, pardon me, my prince, if my ship be causing you trouble. Rest assured, it is not intentionally done."

Beside him, Cordelia tensed. He reached forward to grasp a hold of her hand, but she moved away, eyes downcast.

"Please understand, Meshif, that I cannot allow you to set sail. Not right now, when we have need of the Merchants' Guild."

"My allegiance is not to you! It is to the Priests of Kurast, who will soon fall! I must return to my homeland."

"Yes. And Kurast will fall without your aid." The prince said, dryly. "I cannot make you understand, Meshif—but it is simply not done. You may not set sail. And that is final."

Saul cleared his throat. Loudly.

It was not without consequence. Both men silenced themselves, turning to gaze towards the newcomers. For several short moments, the druid thought he saw a flicker of shame within the eyes of the prince, but it was gone a second later. The one called Meshif murmured a silent greeting—then slipped away, into a crowd of townspeople, rather red in the face. Saul rather suspected that the colour came from a sentiment besides shame, but he kept this thought to himself.

"My Prince Jerhyn." Jhennan began, somewhat stiffly. "I present to you Lady Cyrix of the Medjai, and Master Vyreant."

"Ah, yes." Jerhyn had, by now, regained what composure he could. It was with a rather pleasant smile that he'd inclined his head in greeting towards the druid. "Greetings, most honoured traveler. I have heard with great relish the tales of Andariel's defeat. You are most welcome to my city. I bid you, stay as long as you so wish."

Saul inclined his own head in return. "Many thanks. But we shall not be long here—it all depends on when our caravan master wishes to leave. I trust you know Warriv of Westmarch?"

Jerhyn nodded. "Aye, I am familiar with him. I am glad that the pass through the Tamoe Monastery has been re-opened. Our traders have greatly missed the fruits of his trade—they shall be glad to have the business routes re-opened, I think."

"He does not accompany us on his own. With us also is Deckard Cain, who is said to be the last of the Horadrim."

"Said to be?" The prince smiled, showing ivory pearls behind his lips. "Come, now, Master Vyreant. You know better than I, that it is impossible for any of them to have survived, save him. Is it not in your history books?"

Saul rolled his shoulders back into a slight shrug. For some odd reason, he found himself, for some reason, completely averse to the prince. Perhaps it was the fashion in which he spoke. "It probably is. But I doubt it is ever impossible for an entire culture to disappear in the blink of an eye."

"You under-estimate the forces of darkness, Master Vyreant. But then again, you did defeat the Maiden of Anguish. I suppose, if anyone were to have such right to speak, you would be him." Jerhyn supplied, rubbing mildly at his chin. His dark eyes twinkled with slight amusement—arrogance, Saul thought. Perhaps the prince was averse to him. "But come. Let us not speak of warfare and demons before so beautiful a lady." He motioned towards Cordelia, hand outstretched.

The flickering embers within Saul's abdomen came to life in a crimson instant. He frowned—then slanted a glance towards the sorceress. Her face was, once again, neutral—and her posture was stiff. She said nothing, but lowered her head in silent greeting. Then she sank onto the ground in a low curtsey, skirts billowing out onto the pavement beneath her slippered feet.

"I thank you, Prince Jerhyn, for your kind welcome." She began.

"No, tia-aldyn." In a single, fluid motion, Jerhyn eased his arms towards the sorceress—then lifted her to her feet. "You bow to no-one."

Saul arched a brow—then cleared his throat. He had little doubt as to whether his ears were crimson. His tongue found no words, just as his brain found it near impossible to function. And so he merely cleared his throat, for lack of words to speak.

They stood hand in hand now, the prince, and his—Saul's princess. But she would not meet his eye, nor did she make any motion to suggest that she wished a different man by her side. Instead, she bowed her head, eyes fixed upon the cobbled pavement.

Jerhyn lifted his head, an almost smug expression upon his handsome, sun-tanned face. "I thank you for bringing my bethrothed to me, druid."

She flinched, though none saw it. Her eyes were firmly fixed upon the ground. She watched the cobble-stones; brown, khaki, grey, and then brown again. Yet she could see the look upon Saul's face in her mind—hear the unpoken words upon his tongue. And still she gazed towards the ground, merely content to shield her eyes from his.

Jerhyn's hand, clasped firmly about her own, was cold—cold and hard. Even as he brought her to her feet, she found herself wishing it were another hand that held hers within it—that hand was warm, and soft. And though it was callused from years of battle, she loved it so, for it would always, always, squeeze hers gently, sharing what warmth it had.

Where Jerhyn would pull her to her feet, she knew, instinctively, that Saul would, instead, kneel by her upon the ground—never forceful, never angry; but patient, and kind.

How she missed the feel of that hand.

Somewhere in reality, she heard a voice shout—"My lord! You must return to the palace immediately! There is something which requires your attention—I cannot explain at present, but please come!"

Cordelia inhaled sharply, her eyes widening ever so slightly. She cared little for the prince's departure—but the thought of that which would come after his departure…

All too soon, the cold, hard hand released hers. She heard him murmur a softened apology—and then the rapid footsteps of boots upon stone announced his departure.

"Cordelia."

She swallowed—but could find no words to say. He had whispered her name; and though his voice remained neutral, she knew precisely how much he wished her acknowledgement at present.

"Look at me."

"Saul, I—" She stammered, hating the quavering of her voice. "I—"

"Look at me." He said, again, louder.

She lifted her gaze ever so slightly; and finally, by some miracle, found the strength to look him in the eye. What she saw did not bring relief.

"Why didn't you tell me?" The druid's voice was a low, somewhat dangerous whisper. This new side of him rather startled her—he had never used that tone on her before. "Why, Cordelia?"

"It's of little importance." She tried to be nonchalant, but somehow, knew she failed.

Saul gritted his teeth, deep grey eyes narrowed to points. "It is not of little importance."

"What difference would it have made, if you'd known? Would you have sought my friendship? Or would you have thought of me only as royalty, worthy of naught but your servitude?" Cordelia countered. "I didn't want that life—and I don't want it now. I can't live with you as a subordinate, Saul. You're a friend. A very close, and very dear friend."

"And you thought it needless to tell me before hand! If I am so dear to you, Cordelia, why did you think me capable of leaving your side?!"

The shouting. Oh, dear God—how she hated the shouting. "It would have made no difference as to whether I told you or not!"

He gazed at her for several long moments. His eyes were slightly bloodshot—was he about to shed tears? God, how she wished it were otherwise.

"It would have." His words were soft—softer than the fall of petals upon the ground. "It would have stopped me from falling in love with you."

She stared at him. Stared, and stared—and when she could bear it no longer, gathered her skirts, and turned to run.

But he caught her arm in his hand, and pulled her to him. His face was but inches from hers—and she knew he could see the tears in her eyes. But what he'd been about to say, she never discovered. She turned on the spot, and for several short seconds felt the warmth of his arm about her abdomen—then teleported away into the unknown, pale blue eyes sparkling with crystalline tears.

Author's Note: Bwahahahahahahaha! I am beyond evil, I know. The second Kashya disappears, Jerhyn appears. I can see many of you clamouring to kill me for this new plot twist—but if you're going to kill me, that should mean I get more reviews, right? I know there are those of you who are reading without reviewing. I KNOW IT!

Seriously, guys. It hurts us writers that no one bothers to review anymore. So make me happy, and drop me a line or two? Pretty please with sugar on top?

Anyways! Thanks go out to Ophelion for being my most faithful reviewer and reader! She gets chocolates—and the promise of Saul abuse in the next chapter. ;)

Thanks go out, also, to skopde for the review—it made me giggle. Thank you!

And also, thanks to Twin Jewels for the favourite and alert!

I'll be signing off for now—but here's something to look forward to. Next up—"Chapter 21: Of Acquaintances and Amazons". Thanks for reading, and keep doing so! Until then, cheers!