The forge was hotter than the fifth burning pit of hell. Sweat ran down my back, soaking through my shirt. My pants clung to my legs, but damp clothes were a small price to pay for progress, and, Gods, was I making progress.
Danya’s sword smelted perfectly. The quicksilver didn’t laugh at me at all as I worked. It didn’t split from the steel and refuse to recombine. For once, it was silent and cooperative. But its attention was a hand resting on my shoulder. It was curious. It wanted to see what kind of weapon I would create with it, and if I was capable of upholding my end of our bargain.
I’d dreamed of getting to create something like this for years. I’d had so many sketchbooks back in Zilvaren full of designs that I had never been able to forge thanks to lack of materials. If the quicksilver wanted to be turned into a weapon that would demand people’s attention, then I wasn’t going to disappoint it. There were areas of the casting that I was going to need help with, though. Areas I didn’t have much experience with.
The sun was going down when I stepped out of the forge into the snow, looking for Lorreth. He sat on a rock by the fire, hurling a throwing dagger at a dead tree trunk that was already chipped into oblivion, full of blade marks. Carrion was cooking something in a pot over the fire, his mouth drawn into a flat line. He saw me and pointed at Lorreth, scowling. “These fuckers are all cheats.”
Lorreth laughed heartily, extending his hand. The dagger he’d just imbedded into the tree trunk dislodged itself and whipped backward, landing in his palm hilt-first. “And you are a sore loser,” he said.
“He just took me for eleven chits. That’s half of my money.”
“You can’t even spend them here, Carrion,” I reminded him.
“It’s not about that. It’s about being fucking tricksy. We had a gentleman’s bet. We were supposed to try and hit the target as many times as we could in a row. The person who held the longest streak won.”
“And? How has he tricked you?” I tried not to smile.
“And I did the honorable thing and let him go first.”
“And?”
“And he hasn’t missed once! I asked him if he’d played this game before, and he said no,” Carrion growled in an accusatory tone.
“I haven’t played before.” Lorreth flicked his wrist, and the dagger shot from his palm, propelled through the air at a ferocious velocity. The dagger’s handle juddered when the blade bit into the tree trunk. “When I throw this thing, it isn’t a game. I’m usually throwing it at a vampire’s head. It pays not to miss under those conditions.”
Carrion’s cheeks were mottled red with annoyance. “How the fuck was I supposed to beat him when he’s some kind of killing machine?”
I snorted. “How many times has he hit the tree?” It was cruel to ask, but it was a rare thing, seeing Carrion this piqued, and damn it, I was going to make the most of it.
“I don’t know,” he snapped. “More than fifty.”
“Two hundred and seventeen,” Lorreth said. The knife jerked free of the trunk, darted back to Lorreth’s hand, and he threw it again, all in one fluid motion. “Two hundred and eighteen.” Again, he repeated the process, not even looking at the tree this time. “Two hundred and nineteen.”
“All right, all right, you can stop now. I’m already making the godscursed food, anyway.”
“That’s what you bet him?” I asked Lorreth. “That he’d have to cook?”
The warrior shrugged. The tips of his canines were just visible in the waning half-light when he grinned. “I was hungry.”
“Tricksy,” Carrion muttered again, stirring the contents of the pot bubbling over the fire.
“He didn’t trick you,” I told him. “He gave you a taste of your own medicine. How many of these unfairly weighted, unwinnable bets have you allowed Hayden to enter into, huh?”
“It isn’t my fault if your brother’s over-confident when it comes to card games, Saeris.”
“And how would you have rated your confidence levels when you sized up a seven-foot-tall, full-blooded Fae warrior with hundreds of years’ worth of experience in killing things under his belt, and you thought you’d best him at knife play?”
“Gahhhh, screw the both of you,” Carrion groused, pulling a face. “If I’d gone first, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. I’d be the one still hitting the fucking tree.”
This time, when the dagger’s handle landed in Lorreth’s hand, he flipped the weapon over and held it by the blade, offering it out to Carrion with a wicked glint in his eyes. “By all means, human. Have at it.”
Carrion went even redder. “Well, it’s too late now. I’ve already lost, haven’t I! There’s no point.”
Lorreth shook his head. “Sore loser.”
“The sorest,” I agreed.
“Urgh! How about we just eat the food I’ve made, and you both shut your mouths?”
“I don’t have time to eat. I only came out here to ask you something, Lorreth.”
The warrior twisted on his rock, giving me his full attention. “Ask away.”
“Have you got any experience of whittling? Y’know, carving things out of wood?”
“As it happens, I have.”
“Be more specific with your questioning, Sunshine. He probably whittles every spare moment of his life. He probably wins whittling competitions.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not trying to beat him in a bet, Carrion. I want him to be good at it.”
Lorreth’s booming laughter rang out into the encroaching night. “In that case, then yes. I’m more than good. I’m fucking excellent.”
Hours slipped by. Once I’d flashed the newly poured length of metal I’d made from the pieces of Danya’s sword, I heated it, shaped it, and flattened it. Then, just when the new sword was taking shape, I took up a hammer and started to pound. I applied more heat. As soon as the steel glowed white hot, I folded it. Hammered it. Shaped it. Again and again. Not just once. A thousand times. More.
Evening turned to night. The clouds cleared and the stars came out, and I didn’t rest. My arms were heavy as lead, the muscles in my back screaming every time I lifted the hammer, but somehow I knew it wasn’t ready yet. Just when I thought I was finished and the steel had been tempered sufficiently, something deep down inside of me said, ‘Once more, Saeris Fane.’
Lorreth brought in the wolf’s head he’d carved out of a piece of yew at around one in the morning. It was an impressive piece, highly detailed, its proportions perfect. Just as I had hoped it would, the snarling beast bore a striking resemblance to Fisher’s tattoo, as well as the animal embossed into the armor worn by the members of the Lupo Proelia.
I walked the warrior through the steps of making a casting mold, and he followed those steps without complaint, even though they required him to dig a hole into the frozen ground until he found clay and then required him to combine that clay with a pile of horse shit with his bare hands. He enjoyed pressing the wolf head he’d carved into the clay and sat impatiently by the firing ovens while the small fire he built inside slowly dried out the mold so it wouldn’t crack.
At around four, when I was growing delirious from the heat and exhaustion, Carrion announced that he was going to sleep. Rather than head down to the camp in search of his tent, he stretched out on the floor on the other side of the forge, by the door where it was a little cooler, balled up his coat, stuffed it underneath his head, and promptly passed out.
It’s time for you to rest, too, Osha.
That voice. Gods alive. It made me jump when I heard it in my mind, though I had been waiting for it.
Not until I’m done, I answered. I’m nearly there.
Fisher was close. I could inexplicably feel him, his presence near. Casting a quick glance toward the forge’s doorway, I thought I could make out the shape of him, merging with the shadows that danced and leaped around the fire.
How long have you been out there? I asked.
Only a few hours, came his reply.
Why didn’t you come in?
There was a long pause. And then he said, I didn’t know if you’d want me to.
Come in from the cold, Kingfisher.
I will. Soon. I’ll sit here a little longer, I think.
I didn’t react when he stole in later. He sat in a chair by the window, moonlight threading through his hair, shadows playing over his hands and his face as he watched me work. He and Lorreth talked quietly, and I hammered. They were both there, helping when I poured the steel for the wolf’s head hilt. Fisher whistled when we cracked the mold and he saw what Lorreth had carved. Very few words were traded between us. As I bound the broad, beveled blade to its hilt and cross guard, and wrapped the hilt with a glittering black and gold cord, a breathless tension clung to the air.
Then, at last, it was done.
I nearly collapsed on the spot.
The sword was a thing of beauty. Undeniably so. Aside from the impressive wolf’s head pommel, the hilt was also decorated in trailing vines that wound around the hilt and guard, which I’d managed to fire myself without any help from Lorreth. The blade itself bore a rippled wave that ran from end to end thanks to the countless times it had been folded. I had spent the past hour painstakingly engraving words down the very center of the blade. Words that would hopefully bode well for both the weapon and the warrior who bore it, and badly for those who found themselves at its sharp end.
By righteous hands, deliverance of the unrighteous dead.
“Incredible,” Fisher said breathlessly. His eyes found mine, and they shone with amazement.
“Can I hold it?” Lorreth asked hopefully.
“Go ahead.”
He lifted it, eyes lit with reverence. Inexplicably, my throat closed up at the sight of him holding the weapon. He ran his finger along its edge, barely touching his fingertips to the steel before hissing, pulling his hand back again. “Gods, you only need to look at the damned thing and it cuts.” He popped his index finger into his mouth, sucking on it.
For the first time since we left the map room, the quicksilver spoke, and its voice was no longer fractured. It was one voice, strong and clear.
It is time. Give us our song.
Outside, the sky was lit up with an explosion of green and pink light.
My breath caught at the sight of it. “What is that?”
“The aurora,” Fisher answered softly. “A blessing.”
“Holy fuck.” Lorreth dropped to his knees in the snow, staring up at the sky, his mouth wide open. “It’s…beautiful. The aurora hasn’t been seen in… in…”
“Well over a thousand years,” Fisher said. “It’s been there all night. I was going to tell you both to come and look, but I had a feeling it’d still be here when you were done.”
Lorreth’s eyes shone brightly as he watched the green dancing lights shift to reds and pinks, undulating in waves in a broad band across the horizon. The warrior was on the verge of tears, and I had to admit, I was pretty close myself. I was drained. Wrung out, even. But I still had the energy to stand as I watched the sky, knowing that I was witnessing something rare and remarkable.
The sword lay across Lorreth’s lap. He rested a hand on the hilt, as, still in complete awe of the beauty lighting up the heavens, he began to sing.
To all those who’ll listen
or haven’t been told,
of the day the last drake
woke and rose from the cold.
Of the young warrior who came
veiled in shadows and blood
to defeat the foul creature
and save those he could.
Of the Fisher King,
and the wolves at his back,
who came howling in the night,
together, a pack.
The frost blessed the morning.
The warriors faced their fate.
And thus begins our tale,
The Ballad of Ajun Gate.
Next to me, Fisher tensed. The muscles in his jaw popped. He let his head fall, his eyes abandoning the aurora and finding the snowy, compacted ground under his feet instead, as Lorreth’s powerful voice flowed from verse to verse.
Back in the tavern, Lorreth claimed he’d once been a singer of middling talent. This performance was not middling. His voice was full of smoke and pain. The air itself seemed to weep as he flowed through his lament. The song dipped and soared, telling a tragic tale of impossible odds and heroic sacrifice, nearly every line paying tribute to Kingfisher. The male next to me didn’t move a muscle, but he was hating this. His nostrils flared, hands shaking at his sides, and the song plowed on regardless.
The drake, he did stir,
Old Omnamshacry
observing the world
through ink-black, mad eyes.
The drinkers of night
pledged him death and decay.
That he’d feast on his foes
and the flesh he did flay.
So long as he rose
and he joined them in war,
against the Fae who protected
the sacred, blessed ore.
With glittering sharp scales
of gold and of red,
the drake, he consented,
and bidden, he fed.
The Fae in their towers
stood mighty.
Stood proud.
But soon they were scattered,
their fear shouted loud.
Dark wings shaded mountain
and blotted the sun.
And mad old ’Shacry,
he watched them all run.
The wolves scaled the summit
with blades in their hands.
The drake saw them coming,
and knew where they’d stand
So there he did meet them,
and there they did clash.
And Old Mad ’Shacry
dressed the mountain in ash.
His fire ran in rivers.
It melted the snow.
There was no escaping
the glowing hot flow.
With teeth bared and dripping,
the drake trapped the Fae,
laughing with cruelty
above the warriors he’d slay.
But the wolves held their ground,
all dauntless and brave,
determined to send
Old ’Shacry to his grave.
Swift came the chant, then,
so all close could hear.
A war cry of old that
strengthened those near.
The wolves ran the charge
and at the head of the swell
came the proud Fisher King
bearing Nimerelle.
The drake saw his courage
and was filled with a rage
the likes of which unseen
in more than an age.
But the king held his nerve
and raised up his sword,
and the wolves showed their courage
’fore the drake and the horde.
Their ears rang aloud
with the Kingfisher’s cry
that those who stood with him
might fall, but not die.
For their sacrifice was great,
and so was the cost.
But those that they saved
would e’er remember the lost.
So they scaled the great drake,
the last of his name.
They did it for Ajun,
Not glory, nor fame.
And the drake knew his power.
He started to gloat,
but the King saw his chance and
drove steel down his throat.
The drake he did tremble
and started to choke,
his evil, rank maw
filling up with black smoke.
He thrashed and he bellowed
did old Omnamshacry,
but the reaper had claimed him,
and bidden, he died.
The Ajun were safe.
The horde abandoned the gate.
And thus ends the ballad
of the king and his eight.
When the song finally came to an aching, bittersweet end, Lorreth panted, his eyes full of stars as he watched the aurora dance in the sky.
“It’s fucking outrageous that he can sing, too.” Carrion had woken up and was stood to my right, arms folded across his chest, balefully regarding Lorreth. “That was nice, though. Messed up, but nice.”
Fisher shifted his weight, standing up a touch straighter, lifting his head. “Do you think it’ll be enough?”
“I don’t know. I suppose we’d better go and get Danya.” I’d known she’d have to be called to the forge at some point. After all that we’d accomplished and all that we’d done, I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of her coming here and ruining this special moment, but—
We have made a decision.
Fisher’s spine straightened. Lorreth’s too. Had they both just heard the quicksilver speak? Fisher must have heard it thanks to the quicksilver inside his own body, but Lorreth shouldn’t have been able to.
“Why do you all look like you’ve collectively shit yourselves?” Carrion demanded.
We accept the song as tribute. The bargain is fulfilled. An accord is struck.
“But…you said you’d consider the blood of the one who would wield you!” My heart sank in my chest. “Danya—”
We have considered, the quicksilver intoned, the first to bleed upon our blade.
“But…”
Lorreth leaped up. He held the sword out like it was a snake, reeling back to strike him. “Shit. I’m an idiot! I’m sorry!” he cried. “Here! Take it!” he held out the sword to Fisher, but there was a delighted spark in the other male’s eyes.
“Hell no. I’m not touching that thing. It has your name written all over it.”
“Would someone mind telling me what the fuck’s going on?” Carrion’s ultra-polite tone promised violence if someone didn’t explain and quickly.
“You only need to look at the damned thing and it cuts,” I whispered. The words Lorreth had said, right after he’d run his fingers along the sword and cut himself on it. He had been the first to bleed on the newly forged weapon. The sword had judged his blood.
Lorreth’s face went ash white. “I didn’t mean to,” he said. “I’m happy with my daggers, I swear. I did not mean to claim Danya’s sword.”
Not Danya’s sword, the quicksilver hissed. We are reforged. New unto this place. You do not claim us, Lorreth of the Broken Spires. We claim you.
“This is going to be hilarious,” Fisher said. But he wasn’t laughing.
Neither was Lorreth. “Danya’s going to lose her mind.”
“She’ll have to get over it. She doesn’t have a choice. You’ve been a member of the Lupo Proelia without a god sword for four hundred years. It’ll be her turn for a while.”
Doubt was sketched in every line of Lorreth’s features, but his hand closed possessively around the hilt of the sword all the same. It looked right in his hand. As far as I was concerned, it was his sword. “You deserve it, Lorreth. You carved the wolf for the pommel. You helped to cast it. And it was your song that sealed the bargain with the quicksilver.”
A flicker of confusion chased across Lorreth’s face. Kingfisher and Carrion looked equally as non-plussed by what I’d said. “My song?” Lorreth said. “What do you mean, my song?”
“The song you just sang. About the Ajun Gate? About the drake, Omnamshacry? How Fisher stabbed the dragon down its throat? Not…ringing any bells?”
Fisher, Lorreth, and Carrion all looked at me like I was mad. “I always meant to write a song about Ajun Gate, but I’ve never gotten around to it,” Lorreth said.
“Don’t you dare,” Fisher growled. “It’s in the past. Leave it there, where it belongs.”
Ours now, the quicksilver whispered. Our song. A song for us to keep.
The others hadn’t heard the quicksilver this time, I could tell. That’s what you meant? That you’d take it, and it would disappear? That no one would remember it?
Ours now, the quicksilver repeated.
Ours.
Ours.
Ours.
It seemed a shame that Lorreth’s song had been ripped out of the world, all memory of it erased. It had moved me in a way. It had explained so much. Why can I still remember it? I asked.
We remember, so the Alchemist remembers.
Huh. I didn’t know how to feel about that. Being the only person alive to remember the ballad Lorreth had written about Fisher felt like sacrilege. How many other things would I need to remember, that everyone else had to forget, in order to make all of those relics? There were more bargains on the horizon, I knew. Thousands of them. Small deals to be struck. How the hell would I navigate them all without landing myself in hot water? Just thinking about it made me break out into a cold sweat. I put those concerns away, to fret about later.
So? Will you allow this sword to channel magic? I asked.
I waited for the quicksilver’s reply. Technically, it didn’t matter if the sword wasn’t able to channel magic. I’d made the damned thing, which was impressive enough, even to me, and the chances were high that I’d be able to talk the quicksilver into bonding with the rings to become relics. If I succeeded in that, I would have done all I’d agreed to accomplish for Fisher. But there was also the matter of my pride. I wanted to know what I was capable of achieving here, working with such a fascinating, stubborn material. I couldn’t live with not knowing…
Hold me with both hands and name me, Lorreth of the Broken Spires, the quicksilver said.
Lorreth looked a little bewildered. “Me?” he said aloud.
It is your privilege.
The warrior looked to me, conflicted. Apparently, it was the right of the smith who’d forged a blade to name it in Yyvelia, just as it was in Zilvaren. Lorreth looked guilt-ridden over it. I, however, had no qualms. The blade would not be whole or complete without Lorreth. “Go on,” I told him. “You heard it. Give it its name.”
Resolve settled over the warrior’s features. His hesitancy still shone through, but he placed both hands on the hilt and raised the blade aloft, speaking in a clear, loud voice. “I name you Avisiéth. The Unsung Song. Redemption’s Dawn.” The moment he finished speaking, a blue flame rippled down the sword’s blade, searing runes into the metal in its wake alongside the script I had etched there. And then a brilliant white light erupted from Avisiéth. Blinding and powerful, it shot straight up into the air—a pillar of energy that transformed night into day. The very ground beneath our feet quaked.
Fisher let out a surprising whoop, joy shining from his face as he followed the column of energy upward into the heavens. “Angel’s breath, brother!” he hollered. “Fucking angel’s breath!”
