THE WIZARD AND THE SYLPH
Chapter Eighteen
The Marshes Of Morag
Two days after their departure from Lund, Lily still rode in the lead, back straight, eyes clear and purposeful. The column of soldiers that followed seemed drawn in her wake solely by her own unflagging will. A passionate anger burned like eldritch fire in her eyes; two days earlier, she had convinced their elven leader, Palindor, brother of Julina, that they must go first and directly to the Marshes of Morag, so that at least her fear and anger would be resolved.
Grol the dwarf seemed to accept her sense of purpose without question. Hadn't she, after all, mastered the Summoning Stone?
When they came to a halt at mid-day, Anest approached his young wife, chewing his resolve to speak with her like gristle. She knelt before the cooking-fire, all-too-obviously trying to give the impression that she was too preoccupied to speak with him.
"When we arrive there . . ." he could tell from her look, her posture, that she was listening. "What will you do?"
Her head slightly cocked as though listening, her vision inward, she said, "That depends."
Though Anest raised an eyebrow, the gesture was half an uncertain frown. "On?"
She half-turned towards him, seemingly reluctant to look at him.
"On yourself. Do you trust me?"
The question caught him off-guard. It took him a moment to realise that more was implied that lay on the surface. He considered several possible answers, in the end, choosing the one she needed to hear from him. "You know I do."