Tempus chose to work with fire, and like the flame gave his creations a brief life with which to burn brightly before tapering out. These lives were strong, determined, and passionate, but lacked the longevity to fulfill their desires.
Yagos saw his brother’s chagrin and laughed. He chose instead to work with immortal stone. But rock is difficult to sculpt, and his creations were given irregular, misshapen forms. He thought they would be calmer than Tempus’ works, but instead they simply lacked will. Moreover, just as time and pressure transform rock without destroying it, so too immortality slowly mutates and corrupts.
This time Tempus laughed and ridiculed. His own children were transient, but beautiful. He was proud of them, impractical though they were.
Yagos, on the other hand, was disgusted by his imperfect spawn. Every attempt to improve their design only led to a new defect. And after each there was Tempus, mocking him.
Yagos grew frustrated. He knew he could never achieve perfection on his own, and he despised his brother more than ever. So he began to steal fire from Tempus’ forge.
With each combination of fire and stone, Yagos came closer to satisfying his desire. But that desire was no longer to create perfect lives, but rather to turn Tempus’ own flames against his beautiful children. And so the demons were unleashed on mankind.
When he discovered what was happening, Tempus was enraged. He vowed to never allow another flame to pass into Yagos’ hands, regardless of the cost, even stifling the ambitions of his own creations. No longer would they spend their brief lives learning and growing. He would protect them, even from themselves.
So the brothers’ dispute went on and on, neither growing in power. Theus watched, and smiled, having achieved the creation of life while simultaneously holding back his ambitious kin.
Half of the story was told through a mouth that chewed on overcooked and underflavored beef, which Henrik washed down with repeated long pulls of beer.
Troubled, but not wanting to show it, Jak reached for his own tankard and took a slow sip.
“Well, at least we answered one question,” Henrik went on playfully. “You two are interested in the histories, after all. I wondered whether you were really reading down there.”
Jak nearly spat out the beer.
“Da!” Calla cried. She looked away, red-faced.
“I’m only joking, Girl. Don’t worry, I’ll be on better behavior on the morrow.”
“On the morrow?” Jak asked. He glanced at Calla, who did not meet his eyes.
“Yes, Everdawn’s clerk has been so kind as to invite us to sup with his household,” Henrik said.
“Oh.” Everdawn’s clerk—Kevik’s and Kleo’s father, Rodrik—also happened to be Jak’s master.
Jak supposed he would be cooking for six.
On the morn, Kevik surprised Jak by waking him up.
“Come on,” he said. “I need to spar.”
Jak had not been able to fall asleep until very late, so his mind was still cloudy as he dressed and fetched two practice swords. He was dimly aware of what happened the last time they sparred, but his duty did not allow him to question commands. Besides, Jak genuinely missed spending time with his friend, and longed for a return to the old ways. Perhaps this would turn into another adventure.
As they walked into the woods, Jak allowed himself a loud yawn that helped clear some of the fatigue from his brain. “You want to tell me what this is about?”
“I learned at the academy that it’s the best way to sober up.”
“You can’t sleep it off like a normal person?”
“Not today. Calla and her da are coming over later. I dare say you knew that, the way you’ve been spending so much time with her.” Jak quickly looked at his companion, who winked. “Anyway, I need to meet with them beforehand.”
With every reason to feel annoyed, Jak wondered why he felt guilty instead.
He had always appreciated how Kevik allowed him to set the tempo of their sparring, as well as the way Kevik pulled his blows whenever the time came to strike. These things were very much on Jak’s mind now, because Kevik was doing neither of them.
Jak picked himself off the ground for the fourth time, clutching at a tree to keep from falling back over. The last hit on the head had left him dazed and dizzy, and his legs felt unstable. He did not know why a blow to the head would affect his legs, but here was proof that it did. Jak could barely stand upright.
Raising a hand to his temple, he felt wetness. Not much, but more than any of their previous bouts. The blood matched that of his left arm, and the stinging pain that of his right thigh and knee. Jak did not know why Kevik the Cruel was doing this, but knew the brutality could not go on much longer. Not if Jak wanted to be able to walk back home.
“I’m ready for a break,” Kevik said. “How about you?”
Jak thought the proposal was a joke—or a generous allowance for Jak’s condition—but one quick glance suggested otherwise. The larger boy was flush and breathing heavily, which Jak had never before seen, even during practices that lasted twice as long.
Kevik found a rock to sit on. Jak took a seat in the grass nearby. Sitting down had never felt so good.
They sat in silence for a while, recovering their breath and collecting their many thoughts.
Clenching and unclenching his fists while they sat, Jak was prepared to hate his companion, although the sensation ran against his instincts. He had spent an entire life looking up to Kevik, an admiration that was hard to dismiss in the span of a few tendays. Yet Kevik seemed determined to do everything he could to make that happen.
What Jak was not prepared for was what happened. Not for this, and not for what came after.
“I never thanked you,” Kevik said. “For telling that boy that it was you, I mean. I was panicking and you were going to tell everyone you murdered him. You have no idea how much I appreciated that. Even though I know I don’t show it.”
Jak said nothing. He did not feel like having this conversation now.
“I’m glad it didn’t come to that,” Kevik continued. Jak waited for more empty words, but none were forthcoming.
Then Kevik began to cry. Jak resisted for as long as he could, then finally put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“They beat me, Jak. Day after day after day. I thought I was tough, but I cried the very first time. So they hit me harder the next.”
With this simple explanation, things began to make more sense to Jak. His friend had been changed by the experience—cruelly broken, forcibly shaped into a man he was never intended to be—and it would be up to the good people of Everdawn to reverse the damage.
“Then they stopped, and I thought it was over.” Kevik began shaking his head. “Nay, it wasn’t. They pulled my pants down and cut me down here.” He motioned frighteningly close to his privates. “They said they would slice my prick open. And then that they would cut it off. I begged them to stop. I begged.” The crying stopped, and he wiped the tears away with one last sniffle. The telling seemed to have served its purpose.
How badly Jak wished Kevik had confessed this earlier. How much of the damage of recent days could have been stopped? Along with all that would come after.
“Come on. Let’s head back.” As quickly as it had started, the conversation ended.
Jak was impressed with how well Kevik was able to compose his face during the short walk back. They reached the edge of the village, and Jak did a quick inspection. “Let me look at you. Aye, you’re good.” He patted the beefy shoulder.
“What’s that?” Kevik said, turning.
A figure was walking along the path behind them, fifty yards distant, still concealed by the midmorn shadows. Nay, not walking—stumbling. A tall, thin man.
“I think this fool’s drunk,” Kevik laughed.
Then the fool tumbled onto the ground, the long object he carried still clutched in his hands. The figure lay unmoving.
“Come on,” Kevik said, starting forward in a jog. Jak did not wan
t to follow but forced himself to. He did not understand his own reluctance, but then so much of this day was confusing as hell.
Kevik rolled the man over and held two fingers to the neck. Jak did not understand why until his friend announced, “He’s alive.” Somehow the gesture had allowed him to detect life.
“I know him,” Jak said. “His name is Rufus. He’s a Third of Swords.”
“A Third?” Kevik exclaimed. “We’d better get him into town. I’ll carry him. You grab that.”
The object in the man’s hands was a bundle of light blue silk, wrapped around something long and thin. Jak was afraid he knew what it was, and did not want to touch it.
“Jak? Come on.”
He bent down and put his hands around the silk. The fabric was too exquisitely soft for his rough fingers, but there was also hardened leather beneath. He pulled, reluctantly.
“He won’t let go.”
“What?”
“He’s not letting go, Kevik.”
“Fine.” Kevik lifted the man in his arms, bundle and all. Jak had visions of the last body his friend had carried. Gallo had been rudely slung over the shoulder, then unceremoniously tossed in the pond. Thankfully, Kevik treated this one rather more delicately.
They drew a small crowd as they reentered the village, and in the way of people, a small crowd quickly became a larger one.
Jak followed behind, ready to pick up the object if it fell. But Rufus seemed determined to hang on. And Jak understood why—the man had spent two years searching for it, after all.
He saw familiar faces in the growing crowd. Henrik and Calla were the ones he hoped to see. Instead he saw Riff, Kluber, Rodder, and Rodrik.
“I’m taking him home, Da,” Kevik said. “To the salon for now.”
“Good,” the clerk replied with a nod. “Use the bed in the guest room, though.”
“Darkness,” said Rufus.
Kevik stopped. “What was that?”
“Put him down,” Jak said. Kevik gently lowered the body to the dirt road.
“Devil,” said Rufus.
“He’s raving,” Jak said.
“What? What did he say?”
“He said ‘Devil,’” came a voice. They all looked over to see Disciple Lukas, still wearing his nightshirt. The young man wilted from the force of their stares. “We…should—”
Kluber tittered, enjoying the youth’s discomfort—not the first time Jak had seen the magistrate’s son show disdain for the shrine’s keepers or traditions.
“We’re taking him to the manor,” Kevik said, clearly impatient. He lifted his burden back up and continued on the way. Rodrik walked in front of him, and the crowd moved aside to allow them through.
Jak stared at Lukas. The acolyte was watching Kevik carry Rufus away, looking terribly confused. For someone who was supposed to be in a position of respect, he was clearly in over his head.
Jak stepped closer to him. Lukas took a step back, as if worried Jak was going to strike him. But Jak only wanted to ask a question. “Lukas, why do we burn the bodies of the dead?”
The jittery youth shook his head. “It’s not the bodies, it’s the souls. So Tempus can protect them.”
Just for a moment, Jak felt a powerful compulsion to tell this servant of the gods about Gallo. Better the trouble Jak could understand than that he could not. Duty came first, however, so instead he turned away to hurry after the procession.
The strange appearance of the Swordthane was all anyone wanted to talk about all day, a trend that continued into the supper meal which Calla, Henrik, and Kluber were attending. Jak had cooked for seven, not six. Not that he minded.
He poured the wine while Kevik recounted the events up to and including taking Rufus to the spare bedroom upstairs.
“Did he ever let go of it?” Kleo asked. “It’s the sword, right?”
Kevik nodded. “It’s the sword. And he isn’t letting go. Stubborn old man.” He chuckled, and Rodrik laughed along.
“Does it have gemstones?” Calla asked.
“Three,” Kevik confirmed.
“Onyx?”
He shook his head. “Jade.”
“I’ll have some more wine, Boy,” Kleo said. She held her cup up. Jak stepped over and poured, then stepped back, awaiting the next summons.
He moved instinctively, having performed these functions hundreds if not thousands of times. They required no thought. Instead, his mind waded through a morass of questions and doubts. It was hard to make sense of recent events, but he felt that he needed to.
Jak was pondering fires and stones and devils and darkness as he refilled each cup, his mind only dimly aware of the declaration being made by Henrik. “…pleased to announce that I have given my blessing to your fine son, Kevik. Two sips and a bump for the happy couple…”
Obscurely, as if from a distance, Jak heard the particular kind of restrained cheering performed by refined people—so unlike himself—followed by the careful clashing of cups and the thumping of fingers on table. The lack of sleep and the blow to the head were clearly catching up to him, he thought. How else to explain this unpleasant feeling that he would never know happiness? The sensation was very much like what he remembered of falling out of a tree.
His arms went first, causing the earthen jug of wine to shatter on the floor, even before his head collided with the seat of a hardwood chair. Unconsciousness hit before he could hear the gasps and cries of astonishment.
Chapter Ten
Cormona
THE DAYS after the battle were a blur, but not due to any excess of activity—if anything, Prince Nico had been unable to keep himself as busy as he would have liked. He volunteered for every duty his presence could conceivably help with—getting food and other supplies to the march-worn captives of Iago’s army, assisting the meager assemblage of corpsmen tending to wounds mortal and minor, and digging mass graves to get the foul and bloated dead out of the intense Asturian sun.
These activities were not enough to keep Nico’s mind off his losses. Including Renard, twelve of the thirty-three Threeshields were dead, and three more so badly crippled that their military lives were effectively over. The last death had come as a surprise. News that Mip succumbed to his wounds reached Nico as he arrived at the field hospital to check on him and the others. Nine had died during the battle itself, and another—Captain Bayard—that first night. Ten had been more than Nico’s heart could bear, and these final two—particularly this last—brought him close to despair. If this was the life of a soldier, he was not at all sure his spirit could take it.
Despite the obvious pain of the gash in his side, Mip had been in good spirits the last time Nico had seen him—joking that he had only gone through one shield and had two more to go—and the visit had led the prince to believe a recovery was imminent. Now that the young girl assisting the corpsmen delivered her report and hurried away, Nico realized the wound must have festered. He wondered whether Mip had known it himself before the end.
Thrusting his sadness to a secret chamber he had not known existed—it would never do for the wounded to see an officer’s anguish—Nico pushed past the flap of the immense tent to make his way toward the area where his men and women lay in makeshift beds of straw on hard earth. He stopped at the sight of another visitor. Mip’s body had not yet been moved, and there his twin Pim kneeled, clutching the dead hand, head bowed.
Nico knelt beside Pim, placing a hand on the quivering shoulder. A helpless feeling permeated, for no words could diminish a brother’s grief. Nico would soon have to move on to the living. He squeezed Pim’s shoulder—uncertain even if the young man knew who was with him—and left to check on the others.
Two were asleep, but Lima’s eyes were open and staring. Nico saw from the bandaged stump that the surgery to remove her right arm had been completed. He had known it would come to that, since the limb had been both slashed open grievously and broken at the elbow. He was relieved that she had survived the operation, but knew she woul
d never become the swordmaiden that he had thought her destiny.
Crouching beside her, Nico looked into her eyes for any sign of fever. They looked wild, and he had the distinct impression that she was afraid. “Be at ease, Lima,” he said, gently touching her good shoulder. “The battle is over. Both the city’s and your own. You will live. Soon you’ll be back home with family.” But her eyes continued to dart about, and as he stood to see to the others, he feared his words had had no effect.
“Commander.” Nico stopped in place. “Don’t send me back,” she pleaded. “I’m where I always wanted to be. It can’t be over already.”
You cannot fight like that, Woman. How can I keep a soldier who cannot fight?
He nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The final cases were sleeping comfortably. Nico double-checked with the attendant for his own reassurance—not wanting another repeat of Mip on the next visit—then began the slow walk back to the castle. There were new circumstances to consider, more decisions to be made. With the loss of Captain Bayard, Nico would have to reorganize the company on his own.
There were two prevailing, conflicting moods hanging over the capital city. The first was a mixture of relief and jubilation about the victory. Long days before the battle had been spent in worry and fright, and the sudden release was palpable. People wanted to rejoice, and indeed some did in the backstreet taverns and behind the closed doors of private homes.
But a new cloud of uncertainty and anxiety had replaced the initial euphoria, everything placed on hold while all waited to see whether the king recovered from his wound. An entire city was holding its breath. No one wanted to be seen in open gaiety, a show of respect for their honored leader. And so the festivities remained muted, a lid over a boiling pot. Nico hoped these people got their celebration soon, before the moment slipped away entirely with the return of everyday hardships.
Few individuals were allowed into the suite where the king lay unconscious, tended by a small army of physicians. Nico was one of these few, and made certain to pay his respects at least once per day. He felt a certain measure of responsibility for the old man, whose body he had fought to defend with his own life. Often he saw Princess Leti there, and although there was little opportunity for more than the barest words of sympathy, he sensed that she appreciated his support.
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