by ML Spencer
“Is that what I’m supposed to do?”
When she nodded, he reached up with both hands and reverently untied the small knot he had used to secure the necklace. He didn’t know why he’d chosen the sheet bend knot at the time, out of all the other knots he could have picked. Most people probably would have tied a square knot. But Aram wasn’t most people, and he knew that the square knot was the ficklest knot of all, and he would have never trusted Calise’s heart with one. The more he thought about it, the more the sheet bend did seem like the most appropriate knot he could have tied. After all, he had grown up in a fishing village, where the sheet bend had a special significance. It was the primary knot used in the making of fishing nets, and he had spent a good portion of his childhood working them.
Drawing the twine necklace from Calise’s neck, Aram whispered, “Thank you for wearing this.”
“It was my honor.” She straightened, tucking her hair back. “Now, do you know what we’re supposed to do with it?”
Aram nodded, looking down at the twine in his hand instead of at her, contemplating the necklace sadly. “Aren’t we supposed to burn it?”
“So, you do know what that necklace means.” Calise’s eyes narrowed.
“I do. My father made that necklace. He gave it to my ma before he died.”
She frowned at him hard, scrunching her brow. “Then do you really want to burn it?”
No. He really didn’t want to. The necklace was the only thing he had left of his parents. It was his most treasured possession, and the most sentimental. He sighed and shook his head.
She stroked her hand through his hair, smiling sadly. “That’s all right. We don’t have to.” She bent forward and kissed his brow. “I’m going to go check on my other patients. I’ll come back. In the meantime, I want you to get some sleep.”
Clutching the necklace tight, Aram did as his healer ordered, smiling as he closed his eyes.
The next time he awoke, it wasn’t Calise at his bedside.
It was Esmir.
Aram couldn’t believe it. The old Warden looked hale and more energetic than Aram could remember ever seeing him. There was a life in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, and Aram couldn’t imagine what had put it there. He looked like a man who’d been resurrected from some dark fate.
“Esmir!” Aram cried, his joy coloring his voice. He tried to sit up, but pain made him think better of it.
“It’s good to see you alive,” Esmir said with a warm smile.
“It’s good to be alive,” Aram assured him. “And I wouldn’t be, without you. What you did…” He shook his head in amazement. He still didn’t understand how the crippled old Warden had stood at his side against an Archon. It was almost as though Esmir’s body had forgotten that it was old, returning to a time when he’d been the Warden who fought at Daymar Torian’s side. And for those few minutes, Aram thought, Esmir had been that man again.
“What I did is nothing compared to what you did.” Esmir fixed him with a proud smile. “Other than Erok, you are the only person in all of history to have ever brought down an Archon.”
“Yes, but you—”
Esmir patted his hand. “Don’t. Don’t try to belittle your accomplishment. You do that far too often.”
Aram went silent, for Vandra had said something of the like to him once. It wasn’t that he meant to belittle what he did, or be falsely humble, it’s just that he didn’t know how to talk about an accomplishment without seeming to brag. There is a fine line between acknowledging a victory and being boastful about it, and he had no idea where that line was.
“I wish Vandra could be here,” Aram said dismally, struggling to picture her face in his mind, the way she had looked the last time he’d seen her. He knew that’s the way she would want to be remembered, though he was sure her execution would haunt his memories for many years.
“She is here,” Esmir said. “Listen.”
Aram didn’t know what he was talking about, but he did as the man asked and closed his eyes and listened. For a long time, all he could hear was the sound of people moving about the hospital tent. Somewhere, a person was moaning softly. Another was coughing. Someone else was sleeping, the sound of their breathing loud and even. Outside, the wind was blowing. A gust came up, shuddering the fabric of the tent and crackling a flap that hadn’t been tied down.
“I don’t hear anything except the wind,” Aram said, opening his eyes.
Esmir smiled. “The Auld believe that when a person dies, their soul becomes the wind.”
“The wind?” Aram scrunched his brow. “Really?”
“Really. Think about it. Think about all that the wind is and all that it does. Where it goes. Where it comes from. The wind knows everything, for it travels everywhere, and it’s with us always. It endures. It feels. It speaks. Sometimes it whispers. Sometimes it rages. Give it a listen sometime. See what it tells you. You know what the best thing is about the wind?”
“No. What?”
Esmir smiled a confident smile, opening his palm. “More than anything else in this world, the wind is truly free.”
Aram found himself nodding slowly, for it was a comforting belief. He hoped that Vandra was truly free like the wind. Her and Master Ebra, and all the other people who had gone ahead of him, even his da.
But then a heavy sadness clamped down on his heart. “My father’s soul didn’t become the wind,” he said softly. “It’s trapped forever in Kathrax’s Baelsword.”
A long silence followed his words as Esmir’s face grew stony and silent, his gaze averting. He stared hard at the side of the tent for a long time, suddenly looking his age. At last, he heaved a long sigh.
Patting Aram’s arm, he said, “It doesn’t have to be forever. I’ll send some people out to look for it.”
“To do what with it?” asked Aram.
Esmir didn’t answer, but left without another word, leaving Aram feeling alone and sad. He closed his eyes but didn’t fall back to sleep. Instead, his mind sought Agaroth for the comfort of his dragon’s presence.
He lay in bed for the rest of the day as Calise came and went from his bedside. He listened to the sound of the wind outside and the noises of the encampment being broken down. The battle was over and so was the war. There was no sense for them to remain here any longer. The armies of the other nations would want to return to their homelands, and the dragons would be anxious to get back to their eyries. As for himself, Aram couldn’t wait to get back to Skyhome. He wanted nothing more than to be back in his eyrie with Markus and their dragons, swapping stories over drinks.
He slept through another night and most of the next morning. By dawn, he was feeling much better and was able to sit on his own for short periods of time. His friends came to see him, encircling his bed with euphoric smiles and battering him with questions until Calise finally drove them out. Iver lingered behind after the others left, sinking down at Aram’s bedside and taking his hand.
“Thank you,” he said, bowing his head gravely. “I’m so sorry for not believing in you.”
“It’s all right.” Aram smiled weakly. “I didn’t really believe in myself.”
Iver raised his head and caught his eyes firmly. “I’ll never doubt you again. Never. Anything you need … I’ll always be there.” With that, he rose with a muttered word of gratitude for Calise.
Aram sank back in his bed and closed his eyes, glad for the visit by his friends, for they had lifted his spirits somewhat, though not as much as they should have. He was growing worried because Markus still hadn’t awakened. Calise had tried to assure him that was normal for someone as injured as Markus was. She said he was improving by the hour, and that his wound was not festering.
When he was feeling up to it, Aram had Calise help him over to Markus’s bedside. He sat in a chair beside his sleeping friend for the rest of the day. With nothing better to do, he recounted stories of their years together, stories that he thought Markus would find funny if indeed he could h
ear them. Some of the stories he told made him laugh, while others brought tears to his eyes. Markus just slept the whole while, his face peaceful, his breathing deep and regular.
“It’s good to see you out of bed.”
Aram turned and was shocked to find himself looking at Luvana. He almost didn’t recognize her, for she seemed so thoroughly out of place in a hospital tent. She was wearing her blue headscarf, her gray hair neatly braided. He couldn’t imagine what she was doing here. She slid into the chair opposite him and, looking at Markus, addressed Aram softly:
“I came to thank you. And to apologize.”
Aram frowned. “Apologize for what?”
“For your father. And for keeping the knowledge of him from you.”
Aram averted his eyes, for he knew this was not the time for anger. He swallowed heavily, though it was a heavy knot to get down.
“I forgive you,” he said at last, and tried to mean it, even though he knew it would still be some time before the last vestiges of his resentment faded.
“Thank you. And thank you, too, for all that you’ve done. You do indeed have the heart of a Champion.”
Aram nodded, unable to look at her, for her words moved him more than he wanted her to know. Unlike Vandra, Luvana had never respected him. But, somehow, that made the respect she paid him now even more meaningful.
She stood and left. As she was headed out the opening of the tent, Esmir came in and, to Aram’s astonishment, the two paused and traded pleasantries. Aram squinted at the old Warden as he crossed the tent and lowered himself into the chair the Dedicant Mother had just abandoned.
“So, you and Luvana are on speaking terms now?” Aram raised an eyebrow.
“It seems I’ve redeemed myself in the eyes of the Council.” Esmir chuckled. The youthful glint was back in his eyes, and now Aram understood the source of it.
“Remind me to never fall out of the Council’s good graces, if this is what it takes to be redeemed,” Aram said.
“Would you guys stop talking so loud?”
The sound of Markus’s voice made Aram break out in a smile of joy. “Hey! You’re awake!”
“I’m not sure if that’s what you call it,” Markus muttered, cracking open an eyelid and giving Aram a weak grin.
Aram would have hugged him, if he could be certain it wouldn’t hurt his friend more.
“I can’t believe what you did!” Aram exclaimed. “I don’t even know how the hell you did it!”
“We’ll just say that it was against his healer’s advice,” said Calise, coming up behind them. “I just about tied him down. But he had a sword, and I didn’t.”
Markus shrugged. “Maybe it was stupid. But I did save your life.”
“You did,” Aram agreed. “And I’ll never stop being grateful.”
At that, Markus started coughing, which Aram thought must be horrifically painful.
Calise pointed across the tent. “All right, time for you to get back to bed! If Markus bursts his stitches, I’m not sewing him back up again!”
Aram frowned at her. “Why not?”
Esmir and Calise exchanged glances, and suddenly Markus’s coughing seemed more like laughter.
Calise grinned. “It was a joke.”
Instantly embarrassed, Aram offered an apologetic smile. “Sorry.”
Bending, she gave him an affectionate hug. “It’s all right. It’s one of the things that makes you you. And I wouldn’t have you any other way.”
Epilogue
Aram shivered as he walked down the dark, pre-dawn streets of Hearth Home with Calise and Markus at his side. The air was cool and crisp, and, to him, it seemed that their footsteps echoed more hollowly than they should. The sounds reverberated off the surrounding walls, amplified by the quiet and the stillness of the empty streets. Even the roosters hadn’t awakened yet, and this early in the morning, not even the bakers were about. It had been a while since he’d strolled Hearth Home’s empty streets this early in the morning—not since the last time he’d visited the Brausas’ workshop, when he’d helped Onsel Brausa finish forging his star-steel blade.
By the time they arrived at the door of the smithy, the horizon in the east was just beginning to warm, though stars still dominated the rest of the sky. Aram paused on the door’s threshold before knocking, taking a few moments to gather his feelings. In his hands, he carried a long parcel shrouded in dark cloth, and it bore down on him with a soul-crushing weight.
“You can do this,” said Markus, patting his back.
Aram knew he could. It was just far more difficult than he’d thought it would be. Squaring his shoulders, he raised his fist and rapped twice upon the oaken door. It seemed forever before he heard the sound of footsteps on the other side. But at last, the door opened, and Onsel Brausa stepped aside to let them pass.
“Is that it?” the swordsmith asked in a lowered voice as his gaze took in the darkly wrapped bundle in Aram’s arms.
Aram nodded, unable to trust his voice. Calise gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. He smiled at her in thanks, for he didn’t think he could do this without them.
“Let’s head on back,” Onsel said, his voice full of trepidation.
They followed the swordsmith into the back of the building. It was too early in the morning for any of the apprentices to be in yet, so the workshop stood empty, its forges cold. The room was suffused with a strong odor that Aram found comfortingly nostalgic, for he had learned to associate it with the excitement he had felt when working on his blade. It was a pleasant mixture of coal, steel, pitch, and sweat, and for some reason, it put a metallic taste in his mouth that would stick there for hours long after he left, reminding him of the feel of the forge.
He followed Onsel to the back of the smithy, where the star-steel forge sat in the corner. It was the hottest forge in the Brausas’ workshop—maybe in the whole world. Aram just hoped it would be enough.
“Set it here,” Onsel said, indicating a large anvil that was fixed to the floor. His face was already glistening with sweat, and the forge hadn’t even been heated yet.
Aram did as he bid, setting the parcel down across the anvil then stepping back, glad to have it out of his hands. He glanced at the swordsmith, feeling suddenly uncertain.
“What now?” he asked.
Onsel Brausa’s eyes were fixed on the dark drape of cloth, his face paler than Aram ever remembered it being. “Now we light the forge. Do you remember how?”
He did. Aram moved immediately to a stack of thin metal rods and selected one, then took one of the small hammers that were hanging by pegs from the wall. He glanced at Markus for reassurance, for there was a heaviness on his chest that pressed down so hard it made it almost difficult to breathe.
Markus nodded at him. “Go ahead. You’ve got this.”
Aram moved to the smaller anvil next to the star-steel forge and held the rod against it at an angle. Then, raising the hammer, he began striking the rod soundly. The bright sounds of the small hammer rang metallically off the walls. As he struck the end of the rod, it gradually lengthened and sharpened to a point, and Aram could feel the heat coming off of it.
“Here!” Onsel said, handing him a strip of parchment.
Aram set the hammer down and held the parchment against the heated end. The strip ignited almost immediately, a strong flame rushing over the parchment. Quickly, Aram dropped it onto a small stack of kindling, bringing the star-steel forge to life.
The flames raced over the coals with a hissing crackle. At a nod from Onsel, Aram moved to the piston and started working the bellows, pumping air into the forge until the fire lapped hungrily at the air above it.
“What kind of coal’s in there?” Markus asked.
“Crushed dragon bone,” Onsel answered. “The hottest-burning fuel in the world.”
Satisfied, Aram fed the forge slowly with air, watching the flames evolve through a wide range of colors, starting with red then progressing to cherry, deepening to a dark orange the
n yellowing before flaring brilliant white.
“There,” Onsel said at last, and Aram let go of the piston.
Moving away from the bellows, Aram asked, “What now? Do I just put it in?”
The old swordsmith produced a rag and mopped his brow, his face set in grim lines. He nodded at the forge. “Go ahead.”
Aram hesitated, powerful emotions filling his core with a terrible ache. For a moment, he couldn’t move, but stood collecting himself. Eventually, he found his resolve. He went to the long bundle he had laid across the anvil and drew the dark fabric back with a trembling hand.
As soon as the Baelsword was exposed to the air, dark flames erupted all along the length of the blade, fed by the torment of the souls locked within the steel’s crystals. It was a terrible feeling, staring down at the darkness that radiated from that blade, the sight carving a hole out of him right through his heart. Aram felt Markus’s hand on his back, lending him the strength he needed.
Gripping the Baelsword’s hilt in both hands, Aram walked with it to the forge and thrust it into the glowing coals.
Immediately, the forge erupted with an explosion of flames that took Aram completely off guard. The forge blazed violently with every color of the spectrum, reminding Aram of the terrible colors of Sergan Parsigal’s tainted aura. It seemed as though a battle were being waged within the forge between the sword’s dark flames and the dazzling colors of the fire fed by the dragon-bone coals. Gradually, the dark power of the sword was overcome, devoured by the beautiful many-colored flames of the forge.
The Baelsword’s hilt was consumed first, catching fire and charring to black before turning gray and crumbling to ash. For a long while, the steel of the blade itself didn’t change color, and Aram was beginning to fear that it wasn’t going to heat. He pumped the bellows, feeding the flames until, at last, the Baelsword’s steel finally began to warm, turning a deep shade of brownish-red. As Aram watched the sword heat in the coals, he was filled with a complex mixture of emotions.
