Argoth held Serenity, his youngest daughter, in a great hug, her legs dangling loose. She growled like a bear, bit him on the neck, and then giggled.
He growled and bit her back. “Little beast, you go help your sisters outside. Your mother and I need to talk.” He set her down.
Serenity ran out the back door of the kitchen, and Argoth shut the door behind her. He turned to Serah.
She leaned back on the dry sink, one long dark tress curling across the sweat on her neck, and stretched. Before her on the table lay the carcasses of five pheasants along with the celery, raisins, and cut onions she’d been stuffing them with. The giblets from the birds soaked in a bowl of brine. Serah’s eyes brimmed with onion tears.
It could not be easy being pregnant as she was and carrying the workload she did. And he wasn’t going to make it any easier.
“The servants are all outside?” he asked.
“You could have sent someone ahead to give me warning. We have so little time to pack. I can’t show up in Mokad in rags. And I’m not going to leave my sisters in these lands to face the Bone Face attacks that will surely come.”
Argoth shook his head and spoke in a low voice. “I’m not taking you with me on the ship. In fact, from this day forth, Mokad will be your death.”
Confusion clouded Serah’s expression.
“Listen to me. You and the children must disappear tomorrow before noon. Go into the wilderness, book passage on a ship under another name to another nation-I don’t care. In fact, I must not know how you do it.”
“Why would we need to-”
“Do not contact your sisters. In three days I will either return whole, or your world will begin to fray like a cheap rope. I am sorry, Serah. I never wanted this. But it has come upon us. Do not wait. You will not be able to flee in the moment of your crisis.”
Serah’s face turned from confusion to disbelief. “Mokad has made some treaty with those blackheart Bone Faces, haven’t they? Giving these lands away like Koram did when they lost the wars with Mokad.”
Argoth shook his head. “No. Nothing to do with the Bone Faces. I cannot explain it to you now.” He held his hand out to her. “Trust me. As soon as the Lions depart with me, you must go. Pack light. You will have only a short time.”
Serah did not take his hand. “This isn’t just another battle you’re riding off to, is it? You’ve plunged into some idiot’s plot.”
“My love,” he said and reached out for her again.
She took his hand this time, but did not embrace him.
“You will come back to me,” said Serah.
He hoped that would indeed be the case.
He thought of his children, of his girls begging him to take them on his hunting trips. Of Serenity’s growls and bites and Grace’s affinity for dogs, training his proud coursers to jump through hoops and wear bright ribbons in their collars. He thought of Joy leaving messy clay puppets in his pockets and Nettle who wanted so much to be a man. He thought of Serah’s contagious laughter.
But he always knew his joys in this life might suddenly end. Any man of war knew that. If that happened, he was prepared, and he’d wait for them in the world of souls.
“Husband,” said Serah, more tears brimming in her eyes. “I am weary of worry.”
“I would rather you eat that bitter bread than feast on the bleakness that comes with oppression and slavery.”
She looked down, and he stepped toward her, enfolding her in his embrace. Her hair smelled of the lager she used to bring forth its brilliance.
This time she yielded to him. “I know you must go. But sometimes I wonder if you love war more than flesh and blood.”
“My capable and sweet wife. I love our life so much I cannot see it ruined or stolen by wicket men.”
She sighed. “If you were a little less noble, I think we’d find a little more peace.”
He did not respond. How could he?
“Come back to us,” she said. “Come back and put down the sword.”
“And what would I do?”
“Grow vegetables, race your dogs, and sit in the sun. When our children are grown, you can dote upon your grandchildren with figs and cakes. And when you die, you will be old, shriveled, and happy.”
The vision of it tugged at his heart. “Will you be shriveled by my side?”
She looked up at him, her smile full of weariness, pain, and love. “Women do not shrivel.”
Argoth laughed. And in that moment he realized he’d made a huge mistake. He should have never kept the Grove from her despite the risk her blabbermouth sisters posed. If he survived, he would never keep another thing from her.
“When I return,” he said, “I’m going to tell you a story about a man who held too many secrets and the woman he loved. And then you will tell me what the woman did when she found out she married a monster.”
It was well past midnight. Argoth stood outside the house in the dark, his chances of ever returning to his wife and children slipping between his fingers like sand.
There had been no word from Matiga. He wondered if perhaps the Skir Master had killed the messenger. Had he killed Matiga?
No, the Skir Master wouldn’t be so foolish. He wanted to only give them a scare so they would run and he could follow.
Perhaps the messenger delivered the coded requests, but Matiga felt it too risky to send him the weave he needed so desperately. Or perhaps she had already gone to the Grove’s refuge to prepare to bear the Grove off and the messenger found her house empty. Whatever the reason, dinner had come and gone. And now it was late, exceedingly late.
Argoth did not have the Fire to battle a Divine. And even if the weave arrived this very minute, he suspected it was too late. Fire could be poured out in great quantities. But to swallow such a flood would be the death of any man. Fire could only be accepted in a trickle. It took time. And time had slipped away.
Half of the Lions patrolled the border of his yard. One stood just a stone’s throw away, his bright helm gleaming in the moonlight.
Argoth thought of Shim. He could send word to him. And what? Have him arrive here only to be slaughtered by this troop of dreadmen?
No. This was his burden. His mind raced for other options. But all of them ended in death. And then he heard the Lion below him call out for someone to identify themselves. Nettle’s voice came in reply.
Argoth’s hopes soared. Perhaps Matiga was sending the weave with Nettle.
Argoth left the side of the house and went to greet his handsome boy. He found the dreadman holding him at the point of a spear. Nettle’s face was anxious. And there was no sign of his horse. Something was wrong.
“He’s mine,” said Argoth.
“Yes, Zu,” said the dreadman, raising his spear out of the way.
Argoth put his arm around Nettle and began walking him back to the house.
Nettle looked up at his father with urgency. “Da,” he said.
Argoth shook his head. “When we get in the house.”
They walked in silence until the front door of the sleeping house was shut behind them.
“Have you been to the Creek Widow’s?” asked Argoth.
“No,” said Nettle. “We’re on the way there.”
Argoth’s heart fell. Without a weave he could do nothing. Nothing. “Who’s we?” he asked.
Nettle spoke in barely a whisper. “River told me everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“I know, Da,” he said. “I know what we are. River sent us to the Creek Widow’s. The hatchlings were at Uncle Hogan’s. Then the creature came, and River led it away. Talen and the boy are waiting in the woods.”
“You mean the monster from Whitecliff?” Argoth asked.
“Yes.”
Argoth’s groaned. This confirmed his previous guess-it was the Divine’s creature. And that meant the Divine would be watching his family. It meant Serah and the children would be caught when they ran. Caught and questioned and tortured. In the end, they would die horrible deaths. The picture of Serenity being flayed to make Serah speak rose in his mind.
“Da?” asked Nettle.
He couldn’t believe the end had come like this. He was caught. His family was caught with him. There was only one way out. He still had the tin of poison he’d given to Purity. He looked down at Nettle. He had enough for all of them.
“Come with me,” he said, motioning to his library. He opened the door, the comforting smell of the two well-oiled sets of armor that sat in either corner filling the room. He followed Nettle in, then barred the door behind him.
“Da,” said Nettle, his voice full of intensity, “are we Soul-eaters?”
Argoth looked down at his son. He’d never wanted it to happen this way. He looked about the room collecting his thoughts, at the smudged maps he’d used on campaigns in other lands, at the feather-festooned spear he’d broken in the leg of a Black Hill giant and the lock of hair from that giant’s head, at the necklaces of teeth. Years of prowess at war, and he still had to hide. Still had to face his son as if he were some ignominious criminal.
Argoth walked to the hearth and grabbed one large flagstone set at the bottom of the face on the right. It was about four feet high and two wide. He caught the hidden ring that would release the catch and pulled. The stone swung inward to a dark compartment.
“In, to your right one step, then take the ladder down.”
Nettle looked at Argoth with disbelief.
“Hurry now.”
Nettle crouched, then twisted through the opening and disappeared into the darkness. Argoth followed. It was a tight squeeze, but just big enough for him. He stood in the oversized space between the walls and shut the narrow flagstone door. Then he descended the ladder in perfect blackness to the hidden cellar below.
Nobody knew about this place. Not even Hogan. This is where he kept his secret books, his weaves, and the implements of his life before the Order.
“Da,” said Nettle in the darkness. “What is this?”
Next to the ladder stood a case with many shelves. He felt for the lamp with a flint striker, then worked the striker until a spark ignited the wick. When the flame burned brightly, he set the lamp down on the small table and motioned for Nettle to take the one chair.
Nettle sat, looking about the room with puzzlement. Argoth noticed his ear had been cut and stitched.
Argoth had used good timbers and brick to build this room. All had been sealed over with a thick layer of white lime render. This kept the room bright. Furthermore, Argoth made sure to lay drainage tiles into the soil all around this part of the house so that all the runoff was taken down the hill and away from this dry room.
There was not much in this close room: a stack of wood next to a small, smoke-blackened hearth; a long, but narrow table; a chair; and two cases for his books and the implements of the lore.
“Son, tell me what River told you.”
“It’s true, isn’t it?” Nettle said, looking at the plates of inscribed tin that lay on one of the shelves.
“That depends on what you’ve been told.”
Nettle turned back to his father and related everything that had happened since Nettle had left for Hogan’s, the discovery of Purity’s children, the events at Whitecliff, the cutting of his ear. He repeated everything River had said about the Order, about Talen’s days pouring forth, and what happened afterward with the creature.
When he finished, Argoth did not immediately respond. River had taken upon her a right that was his. He had looked forward to testing Nettle and bringing him into the Order. He had planned it for so many years. She had taken that anticipated joy from him, but he couldn’t be angry with her.
“I am a root in the Order of Hismayas,” said Argoth. “And we are not soul-eaters.” Although that’s exactly what he once had been. Bless the Six, but the memory of his years before the Order still pained him. “You will never apply that term to us again.”
Nettle didn’t speak for a moment. When he did his expression and voice were full of desperate relief. “It’s true then, what River said? We do not prey on others. We haven’t stolen Fire?” He was almost pleading to hear that his father wasn’t a monster.
But what struck Argoth was that Nettle used “we.” He’d expected his son to fight against this idea. The Order had to be so careful. They had to teach their children the propaganda of the Divines just as any common parent might teach their children so that no one would suspect them. And Argoth had done his job well. But here his son, his loyal boy, had already decided to follow him, come what may.
Argoth would not betray that trust with prevarications. “I was once a nightmare,” he said. “But then I was brought into the light.”
“I don’t understand,” said Nettle.
“You won’t,” said Argoth. “Just know that I found the right path. And that I do not steal and haven’t since before you were born. And know too that you have a choice. Not all are brought into the Order. Your mother, for example, does not know.” He regretted how he’d misjudged her.
Argoth continued. “I was going to introduce you to everything later. But now that you know the secret, you must make a decision. I’m going to need some help.”
“Father,” said Nettle. “I would never betray you.”
“Hear me first,” said Argoth. “If you join, you will be bound by oaths of loyalty. Oaths that cannot be broken.” And when Nettle joined him at his side, they would go and administer the poison.
Argoth thought of the position he’d put his family in. He hoped they would forgive him. “There is so much to say, but we have no time. We believe the creature was sent by this Skir Master and Lumen to destroy us.”
“Lumen? He isn’t dead?”
“We do not think so.”
Shock shone on Nettle’s face. “But why wouldn’t they muster a massive hunt?”
“A hunt is like beating the bushes in a great ring. If you have enough people to ensure none of the game escapes, then you can close the ring and slaughter the game within the ring at will. But what if most of the game is outside the ring you’ve formed? What if there are well-concealed bolt-holes?”
“Are we going to attempt to escape?”
“In a manner of speaking,” said Argoth. “We were going to attack them. Enthrall the Divine.”
Astonishment shone on Nettle’s face.
“Bold, eh? Then we would have hunted down those who could threaten us one by one. But I misjudged. I don’t have the Fire I need. I have no weapon to take to battle.”
“Fire?” Nettle asked. “That’s all you need?”
He smiled at his son’s statement. Fire was not so easy to obtain. “Yes, that’s all,” Argoth said. “A man, any man, can learn to speed, slow, give, and receive the Days of his Fire. I am old, Nettle. Far older than you can imagine. I have secretly given my last days out to the dreadmen of this land. My Fire gutters low. So low I dare not multiply myself for great tasks. And I cannot accomplish the task at hand as a normal man.”
“There is no difference between you and the Divines?”
“Not when it comes to basic principles,” said Argoth.
“Then teach me how to release my Fire to you,” said Nettle.
“That won’t work. To learn that very elementary skill can take a very long time. Weeks. Sometimes months.”
“But Talen sat at the table with River doing just that, opening and closing his doors, Fire pouring off him.”
“Talen is not what he seems,” said Argoth. “Besides, even if I could teach you in a matter of hours it would be too late. It takes too long to transfer the quantity I need.”
Nettle pointed at a pine rod lying in the case. “That’s a filtering rod, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Argoth. “Something from before.” He’d kept all the old implements around to remind him of those former days, to remind him what he was so that he could never forget how the Order had changed him.
“Do you know how to use it?”
“It has been a very long time but yes I know how.”
“Then take the Fire from me.”
“Son,” Argoth said. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Do I have enough Fire to supply your need?”
“Yes, but that’s not-”
“Then use it, Da.”
He was so brash. He had gotten his clan wrists this year, but he was still a boy. “Nettle, I swore never to take Fire again. Only to receive it from those who freely give. If I take your Fire, you will be changed. When you forcibly take Fire, you cannot avoid also taking portions of the person’s soul. You take their memories. You take the force that controls the very nature of their bodies.”
He continued, “This is why many who go to the temple to make an offering claim to feel as if they’ve lost something. But it is not an effect of being touched by holiness as is claimed. It is the effect of having your Fire ripped from you. The Divines are no better than soul-eaters-both are thieves. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Do you know why some die on the altars? When the Divines take a great quantity of Fire, they will simply drain a man until he dies. Because if they were to stop short, we’d all see the effects of someone having so very much of their soul leached away into the rod. You might become a drooling invalid or a wild man to be roped and chained. You might lose all memory of us. No one can predict the full effects of taking the quantity of Fire I need. It cannot be reversed. At least, none know that lore.”
“But we can predict the effects if I don’t, can’t we?”
Argoth said nothing. Such courage and trust-Nettle did not know what he was saying. Argoth had seen that ardent desire so many times in the eyes of youth going off to their first battle. None of them knew the sacrifice that lay ahead.
“Da,” he said. He held up his wrists with their tattoos. “Do you, even you, mock me?”
“No.”
“But you do. Every time you allow others to stand in my place on the patrols. Every time you assign your men to shelter me.”
“I don’t want to risk you unnecessarily.”
“Life is risk,” said Nettle. “I am now a man of our clan, a man of my father’s house. And I want to protect my sisters. My mother. I want to protect my friends. Would you prevent me? Would you tell me I am not worthy?”
“Son, you’re worthy.” He was more than worthy. He was precious. He was a prize that Argoth did not want to part with.
“Then pick me up, Father. Let me be your weapon. Let me be your sword.”
Argoth looked at Nettle, the desire burning in his eyes. Such a son!
“And if this takes part of my soul,” Nettle continued, “we will count it no less an honor than if I had lost an arm or a leg in battle.”
“I can’t,” said Argoth.
“If you did, would you be able to save Mother? Would you be able to save Serenity and Grace? Little Joy?”
If he took the Fire, he could spring the Skir Master’s trap. The odds were long, but there was the smallest of chances. “There’s no guarantee.”
“There are never any guarantees, Da.”
This would put his family at such great risk. But they were already at risk. They were already targets. He could kill them all tonight. Or he could fight and try to save them. If he failed, their deaths would not be easy. But if he succeeded. If he succeeded, he would save not only his family but the lives of many others. The Divines stole so much. They made so many people suffer. And Serah did have a chance to escape. Someone would surely follow her. But it wouldn’t be a dreadman.
He looked down at Nettle. He didn’t have to draw all his Fire. He didn’t have to kill him. He knew of no lore that could return the soul once it had been taken. They’d hoped such things would be contained in the Book of Hismayas. But none had been able to open that book. And Argoth could not make this decision based on a wild hope. If Nettle sacrificed himself, there would be no restoration. Argoth found tears in his eyes. Nettle reminded him so much of Ummon, his son of so long ago. His son who had ridden out and never come back. His son who he had risked unnecessarily. He wished this crisis had come upon them six months later. By then he would have brought Nettle into the Order, and Nettle would have been able to give him his Fire. But he knew that was a lie. He wouldn’t have brought Nettle into the Order. He’d pushed the testing off for more than two years now. He would have waited another year. They would have been in the same position they were now.
“Pick me up, Father. Let me stand at your side. Let me be a man and fight for what is ours.”
Yes, Argoth thought. Let us fight. Let us not falter in the moment of crisis. The Divines were no better than soul-eaters. And was he not a Root of the Order of Hismayas? An Order established by the Creators themselves to bring humankind back into the light. To restore that which was lost.
He looked at his son with new eyes.
“I will pick you up,” said Argoth. “You will stand at my side. And together we shall smite the enemy.” And if they died, then they would die with honor.
He reached out and took his boy in his arms and hugged him tightly, hugged him for what would be the very last time because if he did survive, if he came back from this battle, the Nettle he knew would be gone.
Argoth left Nettle in the secret room and went to the kitchen and put a pot of water over the fire to boil. He listened to the sounds of his family sleeping upstairs and a memory of Nettle as a little boy pushed its way into his mind. He and Serah stood to the side of the kitchen window spying on Nettle playing with Grace and Joy. Each child had a number of Nettle’s new, brightly painted wooden animals. The animals mustered a defense against raiders in the flower pots. When the waves of Bone Faces had all been tromped, gnashed, and thrown in the privy, Nettle’s pig said, “Want to roll in the mud?”
“A triumph celebration,” said Grace’s horse. Soon all the bright animals and the children were covered with mud. The children had played until dark fell, and Argoth and Serah had been content just to watch.
Tonight that little boy had shown his mettle. And Argoth, for all intents and purposes, was going to have to kill him.
Kill his own son.
But maybe not forever. His heart swelled within him, and then the water began to steam. He swung the pot off the fire. He poured steaming water into a teapot, brought a pitcher for himself, fetched a cheesecloth teabag, and returned to the hidden cellar. He was going to have to make a wizardsmeet tea.
A fire burned in the hearth of the underground room. Nettle stood at the case examining a rough necklace.
“That is your great-great-great-grandfather’s weave,” said Argoth. “A thrall that we will use upon the Skir Master.”
He took a porcelain crock on the shelf and placed it on the table. He unstopped the crock, removed a pinch of the small wizardsmeet leaves, measured a small amount into the cup of his palm, then put the rest back.
“Wizardsmeet has a stench that makes many gag. And not only does it smell but it will leave a taste in your mouth that will take a day to fade. But you need this, for your first response will be to fight me.”
Nettle picked up the cup. “How old are you?”
“I am in my ninety-sixth year,” said Argoth.
Nettle’s mouth hung open in shock.
“Before I joined the Order, I did what the Divines do-consumed Fire harvested from others to renew my body and extend my days. I was eighty when I joined the Order and swore to live by the Fire I possessed or that which was freely given.”
“Then I have brothers who could be my father.”
“No,” said Argoth, and he did not expect it to hurt so much to remember. “They were all murdered. But that’s another story.” He motioned at the cup. “It doesn’t need to steep long. You can drink it now.”
Nettle drank it with a grimace. Then he handed the cup back. It would take a few minutes for the herb to work.
Argoth motioned for Nettle to take the other end of the table, and they moved it close to the hearth. “Take off your tunic, then lie here.” He went to the case and retrieved the draw collar, tongue, filtering rod, and stomach. “You’re going to feel a relaxing comfort come upon you. Next, you’ll find you can’t move, not without great effort. Do not panic.”
Arogth laid the harvesting weaves onto the table beside Nettle. He covered Nettle’s lower torso with his tunic, leaving his chest bared. Argoth picked up the draw collar. “Do you know why weaves are so often made of gold?”
“Because it’s a noble metal?”
“Yes, but why is it noble?”
Nettle shrugged.
“You can make a fine, powerful weave out of willow. In fact, in some ways it’s better than gold, but only if the branches are still green. The moment the wood cures, it leaks, sometimes like a sieve. Gold, on the other hand, holds it tight as a drum. Gold can also be wrought into many shapes. You can pattern a weave with gold wire that’s impossible with plant materials or harder metals. Now I want you to look at this.” He held up the collar. “Such things are woven by Kains. And they would have you believe only they possess the secrets. But you see here that it is a lie.”
He paused. This was the moment where his words became deeds. One last time he considered giving up and killing them all with a quick poison. But he looked at Nettle again. He thought about the girls and their eventual children. He thought upon grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Sometimes the choices of one father or mother affected generations. Nettle’s might be the sacrifice that opened the way to thousands throwing off the yokes of the Divines.
And if they failed?
Then they did so in struggle, not by choice.
“You,” said Argoth, “are a lodestar shining in our bright heaven.” He loved him, loved him with all his heart.
He lifted Nettle’s head and placed the collar around his neck. Into a lock on the collar he fitted the end of the rod of pine.
“The collar is woven to draw the Fire forth. The rod will catch your soul. But we shall not burn it as the Divines do. No, we shall keep it as the testament of your sacrifice. We shall keep it in hopes of restoring you one day.”
He stroked Nettle’s hair. “Can you move your arm?”
Nettle just looked up at him. The wizardsmeet was taking effect.
“In reality any wood might do as a filter. But it was found long ago that pine held on to soul better than any other wood. Leave the bark on, and it holds it all the tighter. But bark can easily be chipped away. That is why this rod has been stripped. I will not suffer one particle of you to be lost.”
Argoth picked up the tongue. He inserted one end into the pine rod, the other fitted into the stomach, a weave of gold, shaped like a grip.
Collar, filter, tongue, stomach. All was ready. It was said that those who stole Fire opened themselves up to invisible influences from the unseen world. Evil skir or even Regret himself. Perhaps what he did was an evil, but the cause was just.
“The collar will grow cold,” he said. “Very cold. Can you blink?”
Nettle did nothing at first, but then he blinked once very slowly.
“I’m going to begin,” said Argoth. “We should have heated blankets, but that cannot be helped. I’ll just have to keep the hearth stoked.”
He hesitated. Nettle looked up at him with such serenity. He knew it was from the wizardsmeet, but the trust in his gaze was unmistakable. “I’m proud of you, son. I will not disappoint you.”
He took a breath, and the whole world seemed to hang on that moment, then he began to sing the ancient forms.
After a time a grayness seeped into the collar like a thin wash of paint. Argoth continued singing, and the grayness slowly darkened and turned black.
Minutes sped by and the blackness entered the filter and slowly rose up toward the stomach.
Without tasting a great quantity of Fire, there was no way to tell if it was polluted with soul. But this unused filter had been cut from a thick, long branch. It was three feet long, more than enough for the souls of a dozen men.
Soon Argoth was sweating with the effort, but he continued to sing and pull. Water condensed on the collar and rod, then the tongue. He stopped to build up the fire, but the water did not evaporate. Despite his efforts, a fine frost began to form along the collar.
He stoked the fire until the hearth could not contain it. An hour passed. He was drenched with sweat, his voice hoarse. He stopped to take a long drink.
Argoth smoothed Nettle’s hair back. Tears sprang to his eyes again, tears full of sorrow and pride. “We’re halfway there, son. You’re doing fine.” He raised the pitcher for another drink, then set it down, and continued.
He lost track of time. The Fire flowed up the rod into the stomach. He estimated what he was taking from Nettle-not mere days, but years. The frost spread from collar to the rod, then extended up Nettle’s neck and down his chest. He took off his tunic and spread it over Nettle’s chest, hoping to warm him. Then began again.
How much would he need? He had to quicken the thrall. He needed great quantities himself. He pulled and felt the stomach fill.
Nettle blinked.
Argoth looked down at his son’s face. Nettle’s eyes brimmed. Tears ran down the side of his face. Argoth pulled back his tunic and touched the collar. The tip of his finger froze to it.
He winced. So much. Too much. The frosted skin would die and leave a scar. He was sorry, so sorry, but he couldn’t stop yet; he didn’t have enough. “Just a little more,” he said and began to sing again.
A soft moan escaped Nettle’s lips. He turned his head, pain wrenching his face. Then he raised his hand, the one with the clan wrist, and grasped the filtering rod.
The wizardsmeet was wearing off.
Argoth felt Nettle’s wrist and sought to gauge how much Fire was left in his boy.
Enough to continue, but less than he’d thought. He’d drained so many of Nettle’s days away. But if he didn’t get enough the weave would never quicken and it would all be for naught. He saw the pleading in his son’s eyes.
“Courage,” he said. He could not stop now. To do so would be to waste all that Nettle had given. He gently pried Nettle’s fingers off the rod, and began again to sing.
Nettle tensed; his back arched.
Argoth chanted, grief welling up inside him. Perhaps they should have just run, the whole family. But he ground that idea into the dirt like he would a spider. He’d made his decision. He would see it through. Second-guessing, questioning, would only poison his resolve.
He continued to pull, watching his son’s slow writhe. “Lords,” he said. “Forgive me.”
Then Nettle spoke one word in a broken voice. “Father.”
Argoth closed his eyes. He could not continue. He would have to succeed or fail with what he had.
“It is at an end,” he said, his voice faltering with emotion. “Your test is past.”
He quickly removed the rod from the collar and began to chant the form of emptiness. It was a more powerful magic, and the blackness in the rod quickly leached up into the stomach. When he could see no blackness in the tongue or rod, he set the rod, tongue, and stomach aside.
Nettle lay upon the table laboring to breathe, then his breathing calmed and he fell asleep.
Sometimes people died during the rite. But if they made it to this point, they would live. Argoth left the collar around Nettle’s neck. It was still black, but if he left it there, the body would quickly draw back the essence captured within.
His mouth tasted like a bitter cucumber, a side effect he’d forgotten about. He put his hands to Nettle’s chest, trying to warm it, then added more wood to the fire. When he’d finally cleared the frost, he saw the skin underneath was dead and white, blackened in spots.
Argoth pulled his own tunic off and stretched himself along Nettle’s side, warming him with the heat of his own body. He held Nettle close until he could no longer feel the cold of his skin.
When he was satisfied, he clothed Nettle, then sat with the stomach and thrall. He pulled Fire into himself. Then he directed it to the thrall. When he began to worry that he would not have enough for the thrall and himself, he felt the weave quicken in his hands and thrum to life. It was metal, nothing more, but it felt like a living thing, like a snake in his hands.
He did not know what time it was and feared dawn had come, so he put the stomach in his pocket and clambered up to the room above. It was still dark, but he did not know how close morning was. He would have to wait to eat the Fire he’d need from the stomach.
Argoth carried Nettle from the cellar back to the study and laid him upon the couch as if he’d fallen asleep there. But he needed to get something to cover that neck.
He stroked Nettle’s hair again. Such a fine, strong young man. He wondered: What would he have become?
Argoth would never know, and the pang of that loss stretched as wide as the sea.
He kissed Nettle’s brow, then heard a knocking at the door. He crossed the room to the door and unbarred it. Uram stood there in the darkness holding a pry bar.
“Forgive me, Zu, but we thought something had happened. I’ve been knocking for quite some time. We need to be going; the Skir Master likes an early start.”
“It’s been a long night, Captain. My son has fallen ill.”
Uram looked beyond Argoth into the room. “I’m sorry to hear that, Zu.”
“Captain, if you’ll step aside, I shall call my family and bid them farewell. Then I will join you outside.”
“Yes, Zu,” said Uram, “Of course.” He stepped aside.
Argoth retrieved a lap blanket to pull up around Nettle’s neck. Serah and the children were already roused. He bid them a teary farewell, then joined Uram and the other dreadmen outside and mounted his horse.
As they rode away, he turned to survey his family and lands one last time. But the night still lay thick and all was dark.
Rubaloth, the Skir Master, stood on the deck of the ship watching the sun rise, the stiff morning breeze at his back. On the main deck half a dozen sailors guided the last pallet of barrels that contained seafire down into the main hold. “Report,” he said to Uram.
“Argoth and his escort are eating a fine breakfast at the Shark’s Tooth.”
“Did he give you trouble?”
“None, Great One. But I did find something odd.”
“Oh?”
“His son’s neck, Great One. In the early morning I caught the Clansman locking the door of a room. His boy was inside, lying on a bed. The Clansman told me the boy had fallen ill. And the pungent odor of a healing salve did fill the hallway, but underneath it all I thought I smelled the faintest trace of wizardsmeet. It was there one moment and then gone. Still, when my men had everyone outside, I went back in and quietly forced the door. They’d wrapped the boy’s neck with fresh linen and plastered it as if for a sore throat. But when I pulled the bandaging back, the skin on the boy’s neck had all the markings of a hasty and large harvest.”
Rubaloth nodded. He’d been right. These cursed Clansmen. Another scion from a vanquished line no doubt wielding old magics. Was he the one who had wrested Lumen from the Glory? If so, this could be tricky. But Rubaloth savored the challenge.
“When we’re a few miles from shore,” he said, “you will quietly search all his belongings.”
Uram bowed. “I shall, Great One.”
Yes, he’d have to be careful. But this Captain Argoth would soon find he was not the only one prepared for battle.