Terry Simpson - Ashes and Blood

At present, Ancel and his father waited outside the room. When she left, he’d been pacing anxiously. She smiled. Several months ago, she doubted if he would ever be like he once was, devouring his classes with fervor. But the combination of being hunted by the shade, the attack on Eldanhill, and his mother’s taking had changed him as drastically as Irmina abandoning his love. Unlike the pain wrought by Irmina’s loss, most of what he’d become was positive. He was once more dedicated to learning, following instructions in his classes, showing the ability to understand tiny nuances of Forging, and deciphering aspects of the lessons without detailed explanations. His skill with Forging had increased exponentially as had his swordsmanship. Ancel worked tirelessly at both, from the time the classes at the Mystera began in the morning until night. He never complained.

The smile dissolved into a frown as she considered his other side. A darker side. For a while, he’d used the emotions to spur him on and help hunt down the remaining shadelings in Whitewater Falls. Once that threat had been removed, however, he continued to venture into the forests and the mountains, often hunting animals. She recognized the craving at once. A need not just to lash out in anger, but to kill. Had he ever Forged when not within the control of the Eye? Had the essences within Mater already took their toll on him and began a chain of events from which there may be no return? Would Pathfinders arrive in Eldanhill to attempt to take him? At some point, she needed to be certain if the boy had surrendered to the promise of power only the strongest Matii heard. The chance of survival, if he had any, came down to avoiding the Tribunal and the Pathfinders. A daunting, near impossible task.

Shin Galiana chased the thoughts away and focused on the giant. First things first, she must help the boy obtain the necessary training. If what he said was true, before her lay the answers to the Etchings.

The giant’s own ended at his neck. She squinted as she studied his features. Something about him seemed familiar, but try as she might, she couldn’t place it. Where have I seen you before? She paced around him, taking in every nuance of his face, from the ragged scars running down the left side, to the angular jaw and squared chin hidden beneath mounds of facial hair, to the length of his unkempt locks spilling down his back. Whatever it was, something under his wild countenance tried to tickle a memory. After a few minutes straining for a recollection, she gave up and got on with the mending.

The man still clutched his massive greatsword, so she started there. The torches in their sconces on the wall and the candles around the room reflected from the weapon’s polished surface, highlighting the runes and glyphs. Only one type of metal carried such a high sheen. Silversteel. Imbued no doubt. A divya . She considered Forging to find out exactly what kind but quickly chided herself for almost making a grievous error. There could be some kind of trap or ward worked into the weapon that would trigger when touched by any Forge other than its owner.

She tried to pry his fingers from the sword, but the blackened joints would not budge. The man’s fingers were no longer frozen, but they were as rigid as a block of stone. Disarming him would prove impossible.

The wound, then.

She slid a short stool closer to her table and climbed up. For this type of work, it was best to be directly over what she needed to cut. Leaning to one side, she reached out to the table that held her tools. She straightened with a small knife in her hand. As she bent over the man’s prone form, something about his armor caught her eye.

Squinting so tight it almost hurt, she peered from his boots back to his leathers. How did I miss this? The man’s boots were ragged, indicative of months of nonstop travel. Small rips and tears exposed blackened flesh. She climbed down and walked to the end of the table. The bottom of his boots were so worn that in places the soles of his feet were exposed. Why did you do this to yourself? What was so important that you traveled until you were in this state?

However, his feet weren’t her greatest concern. If his boots were in this condition, his skin frostbitten where exposed, his hair a dirty, caked-mess, and his body reeking as if he hadn’t seen a bath in only the gods knew how long, why, except for the artwork, was his armor as spotless as his sword?

Could those also be Etchings on his leather? They matched perfectly where the sleeves of the chestpiece ended. So much so, she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

Galiana hurried to the door and peeked outside. “Stefan, come here please.”

Ancel snapped to attention from where he sat on a chair against the wall, his eyes anxious. “Is everything fine?”

“Yes. I just need to speak to your father for a moment.” She beckoned to the elder Dorn.

In a few long strides, Stefan crossed the room. “What’s wrong?” He drew next to her and stared down into her face in an attempt to read her expression.

“We will talk inside.” She let him in, took one more glance toward Ancel, gave him a reassuring nod, and then closed the door, and locked it.

“Well?” Stefan paused to look at the giant before turning to face her.

“What did you shoot him with?”

“An arrow?”

“Do not play the fool, Stefan. You know what I mean.”

A pained expression drifted across Stefan’s face. “A divya arrow. I didn’t know who or what he was and with things how they are, I always carry one nocked and ready.”

“That’s what I thought. Look at his boots and his armor.”

Stefan didn’t turn. “I noticed when we were in the forest.”

“Where have you seen this before? The artwork, or rather, the Etchings.” Galiana ambled over to the body.

“Besides on my son? The Svenzar back when we battled Nerian had the same.”

“Yes. I believe the time has come and that’s why our Listeners have spotted the Svenzar in the Red Ridge Mountains. When I leave, I will send word to all the Listeners to begin the assembly.”

Stefan nodded, his mouth curving into a smile. “The council may not agree. Not that their disapproval would stop you.”

“You and Thania began this, Stefan. The dice have been cast. We cannot pick them up now.”

“Indeed.”

“Now,” she said, “for the second issue. Inspect the sword, carefully.”

Stefan strode to the table and bent close, running his hand along the blade. After a moment, he gasped. “How did I miss this? The markings are identical to Ancel’s sword.”

“Yes. The Access Key,” Galiana said. “This confirms the existence of more than one, but what purpose does his serve?”

“He’s the only one who can answer that.” Stefan straightened. “Can you save him?” He gazed down at the man, his brows drawing together. “I get this … sense as if I know him or should … I don’t like it, but if he’s the chance Ancel needs to harness his power …”

Galiana understood all too well. “I get the same impression but I cannot place his face. As for saving him, I’m not sure.” She opened her Matersense and gasped.

The usual patterns of essences she carefully arranged around her home in wards were now disfigured, seething like a boiling black cauldron. They congregated around the giant’s prone form in bands and strands so thick and comingled she couldn’t separate one from the other. It should have been impossible. Since Mater made up everything within the world, those with an innate ability for mending like herself, were able to distinguish how the essences flowed into a form. How they worked, where light encouraged life, opened an artery, where shade would close the very same blood vessel to prevent overuse or slow a racing heart.