Part IV

The sun’s first rays found the pair departing the palace, moving on foot. No Duralian beast of burden would be able to withstand the poison of the sun. Courmier had donned a pair of protective goggles, leading their way to the west. Spire followed behind him, eyes fixed upon the ground.
For hours, they moved mutely over hill and dale, each one never meeting the gaze of the other. It was as though an invisible line had been drawn between the pair, not to be crossed at any cost. Courmier was wary of the halfbreed, and Spire lost deeply to his own thoughts. Occasionally, a small frown would press its way sharply over his lips. Courmier caught the expression once or twice before frowning faintly to himself and gathering up the will to speak.
“Don’t be a martyr.” The words broke the prolonged silence firmly, and Spire’s gaze snapped to the other man.
“What?” He asked, both surprised and angered by the remark.
“You heard me.” Said Courmier, “You are no tragic angel. No man forced into heroic deeds can ever truly be called a hero.”
Spire’s eyes widened, “I do not make myself out to be a hero or a martyr! I am merely a man wronged, you cannot deny me that! At least give me the time to adjust!” He growled, “I have never been treated as you have treated me, before.”
“Then obviously you have never left your Mother’s side until now.” Courmier sneered, “You are far too naïve.”
“I am not naïve.” Spire argued, “I have values, that is all. Quite unlike you, obviously.”
“Obviously.” The other agreed with a snort, “Unlike the rest of the real world, as well.”
“There will still be some good in their hearts.”
“And when you find them, I am sure you will all rejoice.” The blue-eyed man scoffed, “But until that time, why don’t you concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other?”
***
A slick movement of striped rustled through the grass. The Rynarian messenger moved swiftly, long legs carrying him over the ground in graceful, measured strides. He was the last of the chain, and soon he found himself at the central court’s man hall.
“An audience with the Roix.” He panted to the guard stationed there, “My message is urgent.”
The other man nodded, stepping away quickly to allow the messenger entrance. They exchanged a brief nod before the first slipped through the court’s gate and into the Roix’s chambers, falling to one knee with a quick bow as he entered.
“Hail., Roix. I bring urgent news.” He continued at the nod of approval from the Rynarian ruler, “Dural has sent a party west, heading on foot towards Ildoa.”
The Roix frowned, “They will not make it. They do not have the technology or the strength to even reach their own border.”
“But my king, they have chartered a halfbreed to travel for them.” The messenger informed him, “Half Rynarian. He moves about freely without any sort of protection from the sun.”
Pausing for a few moments, the Roix gathered his thoughts, and then spoke, “Then I suppose this excursion will have to by dealt with. Tell General Resis to see to it.”
“It will be done, Roix.”
***
With Dural’s capital already moderately close to the western border, Courmier and Spire’s pilgrimage brought them to the border of Ildoa in only a few days (although those days had proved themselves to feel quite long enough on their own). The climate had grown steadily more misty and wetter as they traveled, and before too long a light, omnipresent fog clung in wisps and curls to the landscape.
Across the border the going became slower as small creeks and streams melded into larger ones, criss-crossing the ground and leaving few firm paths to be followed. With the ever-present mist, it became easy to misstep and find oneself sinking into the veritable bog. Spire often found himself stumbling, and saw Courmier doing much the same. Even the carefully measured steps the took sometimes failed, and one or the other would let out a sharp gasp before scrambling swiftly back onto more firm land.
Wiping a new splash of mud from his cheek, Spire stopped Courmier with one hand on his shoulder, “Are you sure you know where we’re going?” He spat.
The other blonde scowled, “Shut your mouth, halfer.” He snarled, smacking Spire’s hand from his shoulder.
Spire growled angrily, the pointed canines of his Father’s race just barely visible beneath his upper lip. Eyes narrowing, he pushed Courmier’s shoulders just slightly, “All I was doing was asking!”
Courmier frowned deeply, shoving the halfbreed in return. The two glared at each other, each waiting for the other to make another move. However, there was no move to be made, for out of the corner of his eye Spire saw a slow motion of white moving out of the mist. Giving Courmier a short final glare, he turned, and the other man mirrored the motion.
The figure in front of them drew itself with grace out of the fog. It was an Ildoan man, pale as they all were. His ears were like those of a deer, sliding back at a gentle angle. They too were white. From the crown of his head, two sloping antlers made the surreal figure seem majestic and frail at the same time, sprouting like abstract statues from out of his white hair. But the most striking feature about the man was not the presence of the long deer antlers. Instead, Spire’s gaze was drawn almost immediately to the Ildoan’s large emotive eyes. The deep orbs seemed almost to draw him in, nay, almost to speak to him. And he was startled to find that, as his own eyes met the man’s, he did hear (perhaps not hear as much as feel) the man communicating with him through them.
“What brings this pair so deep into Ildoa?” The voice seemed to echo in his consciousness, in his mind.
“I… we…” Spire began, then glanced to Courmier to finish for him. But the other did not reply, “Courmier?”
“What?” Asked the blonde.
Spire blinked, “Didn’t you hear what he asked us?” He inquired quietly.
“…No…” Courmier replied, surprised, “What was it?”
“What brought us here.” The other told him softly.
Quickly, Courmier looked up to the Ildoan, “We have come to negotiate an agreement with your leader.”
“Then follow.” The Ildoan’s eyes shifted to say, and he turned.
Still, Courmier stared obliviously, unsure of whether or not anything had been said in reply. Spire glanced from the Ildoan to the Duralian man, and then gave Courmier a small nudge forward.
“Go.” He hissed quietly under his breath, stepping forward as Courmier obeyed and began to follow after the Ildoan man.
***