Edward Bolme - Bound by Iron

A heavy autumn mist had set in, making the world seem ethereal. The few other pedestrians they passed in the cold night were but shades in the hazy dreamscape. The only color in the gray-on-gray nighttime city came from the rainbow halos that surrounded the magical lanterns that illuminated the intersections of major streets.

“Let’s talk about our first step, then,” said Minrah. “Shall we start by finding a necromancer that might be able to get Torval to talk?”

“No,” said Cimozjen flatly.

“Why not? I know it’s pricey, but a veteran like you should be able to-”

“I’ll not entrust Torval to the mercies of the Cult of Vol,” spat Cimozjen with startling vehemence, “nor to anyone else who practices their vile rites. I’ve had … poor experiences with their ilk in times past, and I’d trust their assistance even less than I’d trust Thauram and his kind.”

In response to his outburst, Minrah just gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. They walked in silence together for a dozen blocks or so before she spoke again.

“They still amaze me, after all these years,” she said.

“The White Lions?”

“These lights.” Minrah pointed to one of the lanterns as they passed. “They never stop shining. Ever. I think it’s amazing that magewrights can do that, spend a relatively short amount of time on a project and leave an indelible mark on the world like that. That’s what I want to do. Write a story that will be read over and over again for a thousand years. It’s a kind of immortality to have your name remembered forever.”

They walked in silence for another block. At the next intersection, she spoke again. “Did you know that the name ‘everbright lanterns’ originated in Thrane?” she asked.

“No, I did not. I thought that’s just what most people call them.”

“A lot of them do, I think, especially in the cities, but the nickname is most prevalent in Thrane over every other nation in Khorvaire. It spread everywhere with their missionaries, I suppose, so now it’s more of a Khorvairian word than anything. Kind of lost its roots. I think the phrase originally had to do with their obsession with the Silver Flame, their holy eternal fire, burning all the time in its cathedral. A true believer is always supposed to have the light of the Silver Flame burning bright in their souls, or so they say. So I’ve always thought that they used that name as kind of a reminder to themselves of what they ought to be doing. Bringing their light to the world.”

Cimozjen mulled the idea over for a moment. “Sounds reasonable.”

“And the Brelish often as not call them cold fire lanterns,” she said. “I think that’s because they appreciate the irony of the phrase ‘cold fire,’ the inherent magical implications of the name. I mean, their capital, Sharn, is replete with magic, built as it is right there on a manifest zone with all those huge towers. If the magic faded from the area, the whole city would collapse. But in the meantime, they revel in it.”

“I see,” said Cimozjen. “And in a like manner Karrns call them wisplights because they’re so faint compared to the sun. Wispy sunlight-wisplight. It seems the most realistic label.”

“No, silly man,” said Minrah. “I’d wager it’s because of the Karrnathi obsession with mystery, death, and undeath. You’re a superstitious and moody people, probably because you grew up with all these large, dark pine forests encroaching on your towns. I think they’re named because they’re faint and round and can only be seen at night, like will-o’-wisps. That’s why in the small towns, folks only call them ‘wisplights.’ They’re closer to their superstitions than city folk.”

Cimozjen pursed his lips. “I’d not thought of it that way,” he said, “but I do suppose you could be right.”

“There’s no ‘could be’ about it,” said Minrah with a confident laugh.

“Up there,” said Cimozjen, “that’s where I’m staying. The Walking Wounded.”

“I see it. Charming picture of a one-armed zombie on the sign. Do you have a private room?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I find them a needless indulgence,” said Cimozjen.

“I should have expected a veteran to say as much. You’ve probably spent most of your life bunking with other solders, haven’t you?”

“Yes, and trust me, one learns to sleep lightly.”

Minrah paused in her step, her hand slipping from Cimozjen’s elbow. “Do soldiers actually steal from each other? That’s pathetic!”

Cimozjen chuckled. “No, they do not. At least not in the Karrnathi army. Well, maybe once in a great while one will try, though I dare say that losing a right hand in the center of camp tends to discourage such activities. Yet soldiers will play pranks.”

Minrah giggled as she caught back up and took his arm again. “Do they?”

“Oh yes. Snoring, that’s the killer. It shows you’re heavily asleep. Plus at night, it can give away the location of your camp to an enemy scout, so no one ever truly regrets taking advantage of a snoring man while in the field. I remember one night w-uh, one or two soldiers shaved a general bald as he lay snoring in his bed. Head and beard, cut to stubble. Left him with nothing but an X for his forelock.”

“Did you ever get found out?”

“Minrah, whatever makes you think it was me?”

She laughed and tilted her head on his arm. “You said you remembered, not that someone told you. And I heard your little stutter. It was you and Torval, wasn’t it?”

Cimozjen grinned. “In truth, it was. And, according to the general’s orderly, every night afterward he tied a strip of cloth around his head to hold his jaw closed.” He stopped and turned to impel her subtly toward the front door of the inn. “Here we are.”

Minrah walked up to open the door but paused with her hand on the latch. “You understand that we’ll need a private room tonight. We shouldn’t have others poking around our affairs.” She drew in a breath through her nose. “Don’t carry him like a cord of wood, all right? Cradle him in your arms, and let his head rest on your shoulder. So which side of the door is the owner’s desk on?”

“I do not remember,” said Cimozjen. “Does it matter?”

“Of course,” said Minrah. “If it didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked.” She looked at Cimozjen, and he waited patiently for her to explain. “Look, we don’t want the innkeeper to see Torval’s face. Even a stone-cold drunk has more life in his face than he does. Hmm. Just hold him whichever way is more comfortable, and I’ll square him away. Whatever you do, don’t let him shift, or his head might flop down.”

Cimozjen maneuvered Torval’s body into position, wincing as his wounds and knotted muscles protested the additional abuse. Minrah arranged Cimozjen’s longcoat about Torval’s body, unveiling his head, smoothing his hair somewhat but leaving his dead face concealed.

“Right,” she said, “just head in and keep walking. Don’t stop. I’ll handle the rest, and I’ll be right behind you.”

Minrah opened the door and Cimozjen stepped through. She scooted in right behind him, walking straight up to the owner. “I don’t mean to be rude, but our friend here pickled himself in a jug and decided he wanted to drink the river as a chaser. We’ll need a private room, a basin of hot water, and a pail as quickly as you can.” Even as she finished, she pressed a coin into the flustering innkeeper’s palm. “Let’s be quick about it, now, unless you want him to share what he’s been eating and drinking all evening!”

She grabbed the lantern that sat on the desk with one hand and the innkeeper’s wrist with the other, pulling him along, following Cimozjen to the staircase that led to the rooms. “Quick, quick, which is the closest private room? The longer he’s carried around doubled up like that, the more likely it is that we’ll be squeezing everything out of him. Drunk as he is, that might mean both ends!”