Distantly, the sound of a door opening signaled an end to the trance. Quickly his body awoke, fatigue reduced greatly. He rose to his feet, ignoring the stiffness and soreness. Ivy was jarred awake by the suddenness and gazed drowsily at her friend.
"What is going on?" she asked.
"Stay hidden. I will return soon," he said.
Before she could object or reply, he was gone. Lain's movements were barely affected by his injuries anymore. A few more hours entranced would restore him completely. As he slipped silently from shadow to shadow, a feeling of familiarity, of comfort came over him. Stalking a target. This was what he knew. This was his life.
He moved to the rooftops. With snow on the ground, he would leave footprints. There was no telling how long the repair would take. Footprints where they didn't belong might spark the people's suspicions. That would make remaining hidden more difficult. On the roofs, his movements would leave no trace for the casual observer. Soon he had found what he was seeking. Her scent was strongest here. It was her home. She had stepped inside just moments before. He listened closely. She was not alone. Two children were inside, and another woman. For a few moments more he listened. They complained that they were hungry. Swiftly, he darted to the back of the house, dropping down. There was a low door, already half-hidden beneath the piling snow on the rear of the house. With a smooth motion, he slipped the end of his broken sword between the door and the jam and slipped it up.
Inside, a brace lifted out of place and the weight of the snow began to push the door open. He squeezed through the opening and pushed the door silently shut, sliding the brace back in place. The room was a shallow basement. It was stacked nearly to the low ceiling with the firewood it had been dug to hold. A rat scurried away as he navigated the pitch-blackness toward the door. On the other side, he heard the clang of a heavy pot. The door opened and his target reached in to fetch a few pieces of wood for the fire.
Lain pinned himself close to the wall, hidden from the light of the doorway. As she knelt to load her arms with wood, he slipped into the kitchen. The stone chimney that ran up through the center of the house had a warm fire burning. There were openings leading to the den on one side and the kitchen on this side. It provided most of the light, all of the heat, and cooked the food for the home. Here and there, an oil lamp burned. The kitchen was well-stocked with pans, pots, and knives. Cabinets were stacked with clay dinnerware. This was a well–provided-for home. A narrow door to one side of a counter led to a pantry, similarly filled with roots, vegetables, bread, and smoked meats.
He slipped inside and silently shut the door.
In the other room, the children were arguing loudly. She shouted at them as she opened the darkened pantry and stepped inside, holding a lamp. Lain maneuvered behind her, unseen, and slowly shut the door. The sound drew her attention, but Lain easily remained behind her, reaching across and snatching the lamp away with one hand and covering her mouth with the other.
"Silence," he hissed as he lowered the lamp and extinguished it.
She obeyed, the room plunging into darkness.
"When you were young, your parents told you a tale. They told you of the day that freedom was gained in exchange for a single favor. That favor was the duty of your family to perform. Generation to generation, it would be passed down until the day that it would be repaid. Today is that day. Do you understand?" he asked in a bare whisper.
She nodded.
"Good. On the floor beside you, you will find the pieces of a sword. A very special sword. You have seen the weapon before and refused it. You shall take this weapon to your employer, Flinn, and present it to him. It must be reforged. Convincing him to do so will not be difficult. It must be finished in no more than a week. Convincing him to part with it will be difficult, but that is not your task. You must simply ensure that he begins work on the piece, reveal where the work shall be done, and bring the finished piece back here. Do this, and the debt is lifted. If I am satisfied, you will know, and your children need not hear the same tale. Do you agree?" he asked.
Again she nodded.
"Good," he said.
#
As the door opened, she turned quickly to see the face of the intruder, but he was gone. She pushed the door open, light flooding in from the fire. On the floor was a sword. As the children, two boys, chased each other around the house, the older woman came into the kitchen. There was a distant, disturbed look on the young woman's face.
"The boys are hungry, I hope . . . is something wrong?" she asked.
"Mother. Watch them for just a bit longer. There is something I need to finish," she said, stooping to collect the blade.
After carefully stowing the weapon, she put her heavy clothes back on and ventured outside. She traced the path she took every morning to the personal workshop of Flinn. Only she and a few of the apprentices knew precisely where it was. It was near to the town, but tucked into a small alcove near the mouth of an ancient mine. He was enormously secretive about his work and valued his privacy. He even redirected the chimney of his workshop into the mine, lest someone see smoke rising and find him when he was working. Once a day, she and the apprentices would deliver any supplies he needed and provide the day's projects, as quite often days would pass before he left the place for his home. She fumbled for the key that only she and her employer held. Unlocking the door and pushing it open, she entered. It was broiling hot inside, as always, and the air was choked with smoke thanks to the less-than-effective performance of his subversive chimney.
"What is it, Jessica?" called Flinn.
He was a stout, bearded man, perpetually smudged with the black of coal and stained with some dye or another. He was sitting at a cluttered, poorly-lit table, etching intricate designs onto the wide blade of a heavy ax.
"I have a sword for you to work on," she said.
"I have quite enough to do, miss. Enough to fill months. I've told you that already. Take it away," he ordered.
"Please, sir. This is terribly important," she begged.
"Important?" he said, puzzled. "And just how important? I've been offered fifteen hundred gold pieces for the battle ax of the baron's eldest son. I dare say that is quite important."
"It is a sword. It needs mending," she said.
"Mending? Good heavens, girl, I do not mend swords! I have apprentices for that! You should know better than to suggest it!" he said.
"Please, just look at it, sir," she pleaded.
Flinn looked up with a frustrated gaze. The desperate look in his chief assistant's eyes was enough to convince him that this was not something that would be easily brushed aside.
"Give it here," he said with a sigh, putting out his hands.
She placed a coarse cloth in his hands and uncovered the weapon. The instant the light hit it, his attentions locked onto it. He lifted the tip and examined the runes. Turning it, he looked closely at the break, running his fingernail along the layers.
"This is . . . Desmeres's work. Where did you get this?" he quickly demanded.
"It was left by a messenger. The work must be finished in one week. He will collect it from me," she said.
"One week? Nonsense. A masterpiece like this is to be studied. I need months. No. Years. I must have it. Find the owner and make an offer. Any price he requires. No. Better, bring him here. I need to know where he found the weapon. Yes. I must see this person," he said.
"I am quite sure you will meet him. I am not certain you can avoid it," she replied.
"Good, yes. Excellent," he said, distracted.
Flinn cradled the weapon like a child and carried it to his work table, sweeping it clear with a motion of his arm. Priceless weapons and tools clattered to the ground as he placed the object of his sudden obsession down carefully. His assistant opened the door and stepped outside. The dim, flickering light from inside fell upon the path she had made through the still-falling snow. A few paces further was a solitary pair of footprints. There were no steps leading to them, and
none leading away. They were facing the door.
Simultaneously, a chill of fear swept through her and a decades-old weight was lifted from her shoulders. He had been there. He had seen where the work would be done. Her family's debt was nearly repaid. She returned home.
#
Inside, Flinn looked over the sword with a maddened eye. Fumbling through a nearby drawer, he spread a small pile of parchment on the table. He retrieved a bottle of ink and a quill and began to transcribe the runes from the blade to the paper, then a sketch of the cross section and profile of the blade. A small puff of cold air escaped his notice. He held up the hilt end of the sword and judged its weight, testing the edge with his thumb. When he reached for the quill again, it was gone, as was the page of notes.
"No. Where is it?" he growled, placing the sword carefully on the table and stooping to search the floor.
After sifting through the tools he had thrown on the floor, he stood again. The sword was gone. In its place was a single piece of paper, scrawled with a message: Repair the sword in seven days, keep what you learn as payment. Fail and lose both of your prizes.
Reading the last line, he cast a panicked look to a display case above the door to the rest of the workshop. It was empty. It had held a small dagger. The first of Desmeres pieces he had found. The techniques he had gleaned from it had changed his life. The weapons he began to produce, pale imitations at best, were head and shoulders above any other weapons for sale, and he had still only scratched the surface. The subtler nuances were still revealing themselves as recently as that month. He turned back to his work table. The broken sword, the dagger, and the notes were waiting for him. A chill wind swept past him again. He sat at the table, hunched over his work as though guarding it from grasping hands, and returned to his task.
Chapter 27
Lain hurried back to the others. When he reached where they had been waiting, he found only Ivy there. He had suspected as much. Her arms were crossed and her brow furrowed, an irritated frown on her face. It was clear to Lain why. Ether had followed him, he had felt it. In some form or another, she had watched as he performed his tasks. Had he the opportunity, he would have put it to an end, but by the time he became aware, the need for silence was too great.
"Show yourself," he demanded sharply.
The intense wind swirled together tightly into her form and shifted to flesh again.
"Your skill is great, though I question your actions," Ether stated.
"Why did you follow me?" he asked sternly.
"In light of my recent difficulties, I felt it necessary to illustrate to you the degree of my own prowess," she said.
"I told her not to, but she didn't listen to me," Ivy huffed.
"I don't have time for this," Lain growled. "The sun will come up soon. We need to find someplace more secure. This will take time."
"There is a house on the north side of this place. Charred and empty," Ether offered.
"You have seen it?" Lain questioned.
"I observed all that this town and the surrounding mountainside has to offer a few moments after I had shifted to the wind," she remarked.
"We shall see," Lain said. "Lead us there. On foot."
Ether began to trudge through the deep snow in her human form. The distance was short, but the wind and snow made the travel slow. A heavier cloak coalesced about Ether's shoulders. Her feet sunk into the snow in light boots and emerged from the snow in heavier ones. She often removed the sensitivities to cold and hunger that plagued the mortal form, but in truth the windy form had taken most of what little strength she had restored. She needed to settle into this familiar form for a few hours more before attempting something like that again. It was with no small measure of relief that she agreed to remain as she was.
The sparse buildings of the town became more so, and a fair distance from them, just past the sign post of the town, was indeed the remains of a sturdy house. Two walls still stood, and though piled with snow and what remained of the roof, the floor seemed fairly intact. Lain considered it. It was situated such that the walls hid the rest of the ruins reasonably well, and the distance from the road was considerable. It was not the ideal place to hide, but they were not likely to find a better one. He inspected further, revealing a hatch leading to a basement comparatively untouched by the flames. With a nod, Ivy scurried inside, followed by Ether.
The basement was shallow, as most were in the rocky, frozen ground of the mountains. Light and snow filtered through a corner of the floor above that had broken under the weight of the wreckage. It looked as though this place hadn't been touched since the fire.
Lain crouched on the ground near the center of the floor. Ivy imitated him. He slowly began to enter the trance again, a task greatly eased by the lack of a constant, blasting wind in his ears.
As he did, Ivy wearily looked about. She was still tired, but this new place interested her. There were chests here and there, shelves piled with jars, some broken, some intact. There was a mix of smells she didn't recognize. Slowly, she edged away from Lain and carefully opened a chest, mostly keeping her eyes on him, fearful of a scolding.
When none came she began to look through the contents. Old, moldy blankets. She frowned and put them away. Trying to get the smell out of her nose, she sniffed the air, something catching her attention. Carefully, she followed the smell. Her whole mind tingled as she drew in the scent. Ether watched.
"What is it now?" Ether asked.
"I smell . . . rosin," she said.
"Why do you care about that?" Ether asked.
"I don't know . . . I . . . here it is!" Ivy said.
Tucked far into the corner, under a shelf and among a pile of other boxes, was a small case. She undid the latch and opened it to reveal a violin. Her fingers fairly shook as she pulled it from the case. She was transfixed by the sight of it. There was a look on her face of clarity, of focus, of remembrance that she had never shown before. Ether opened her mouth to object as she plucked a string, but instead she kept her silence. Part of her was interested in this behavior. More so, she was eager for the reprimand that Ivy was certain to bring upon herself from Lain.
Lain slowly pulled himself from the shallow trance to the sounds of quietly bending notes as Ivy's fingers twisted at knobs and her ears flicked. The strings were quickly coaxed into their proper tension. There was a skill behind her motions. This was not new to her. The plucking was soft. Certainly not audible above the whipping wind outside. For the moment, Lain tolerated it. A few more deft twists and each string produced the proper tone. She reached into the case and pulled out the bow and rosin. Testing the string, she applied some of the rosin. The serenity on her face was incredible. Finally, she raised the bow to the strings.
"That is enough," Lain warned.
She paid him no heed. The bow touched to the strings and a long, soft, crisp note was drawn from them, then another. Her movements were deliberate and flawless. It began as a slow, mournful, weeping melody. The song was barely above a whisper. Steadily, it grew brighter, quicker. Her fingers danced on the strings. The yellow aura that had surrounded her when she was laughing returned. A look of pure joy came to her face.
Again, Lain felt warmth in what remained of his wounds. The intensity grew as the tune grew louder, and soon Lain feared that if it grew any further, they would be heard. He placed a hand on her shoulder. She jumped.
"Lain, when did you wake up? Did . . . did you hear me? I can do this! It feels right, it feels natural!" she said. "Ether, did you see? Ether?"
Ether had a far-away, almost horrified look on her face.
"She is the . . . the artist, the prodigy spoken of in the prophecy. One of the originals. Damn her. She is . . . she was one of us," she said.
"What? What do you mean?" Ivy asked.
"The five original Chosen were created by the gods. The swordsman, leader of men. The one with the blood of a fox, master of all weaponry. Myself, unparalleled mystic being. The strategist and tracker. The
last was to be the artist and prodigy," she said, almost fearful of her words.
"And I'm the prodigy?" Ivy said.
"There is the possibility that this was among the knowledge that was forced into your mind, but the effect it has upon you . . . it is deeper by far than anything I've seen," she said.
"So you've been treating me badly, and I am just like you!" Ivy said.
"You are nothing like me. You could never be like me. All this means is that the foes we face have the ability to turn a pure and perfect being into . . . you, and when you die your replacement will be as useless as Myranda was," Ether said.
"Hey . . . HEY!" Ivy objected.
"Quiet! Both of you!" Lain growled. "We will be here until my sword is repaired. If the two of you will be at each other's throats all of that time, something will have to be done about it," Lain said.
Ivy shrunk away like a scolded child, sitting in the corner, pulling her hood down over her eyes and pouting until her weariness caused her to slowly drift off. Ether waited patiently until the slow, regular breathing of sleep overtook her. Lain was still awake.
"Rather cold. A fire might be useful. For the two of you, of course," Ether suggested.
"We cannot risk the light or the smoke," he said.
"If the light and smoke are a risk, I can eliminate them," she offered.
Lain was silent for a time.
"It would be useful," Lain agreed.
Ether rose and gathered a few pieces of the lumber. She took weakly to flame and took a seat on the pile. A moment later the wood began to darken and warmth began to spread, but the flames of her body sunk to wavering black and not a wisp of smoke rose. Before long the basement was livable, even comfortable.
Lain did not reenter the trance. With his wounds healed, all that remained was weariness, and he could cope with that well enough. Ivy was deeply asleep, affording Ether as near as she was going to get to a few moments alone with Lain.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 80
