Aravon fixed the man with a solemn gaze. “The man you thought you were, the worthless piece-of-shite father you’ve believed yourself to be all these years, maybe he did die long ago. The Noll who stepped up back there is the kind of man I am proud to call my friend, my brother. A man who would sacrifice himself to protect those he cares about.” He placed a hand on Noll’s shoulder. “Perhaps a man they’d want in their lives, if that was something he wanted to take a chance on.”
Noll’s expression froze, yet he chewed on his lip and a hint of moisture glimmered in his eyes. He seemed at a loss for words.
“Think on it.” Aravon gave the man an encouraging smile. “Might be there are some of us that have a hope of a better future after this is over. If we get through this alive…”
“Aye,” Noll managed, his voice hoarse and harsh. “I’ll think on it.” Neither of them needed to say their chances of survival were slim—slimmer now that only eight of them remained alive. But hope could be a powerful thing. Noll had something to live for, to fight for. That made him dangerous, indeed.
Aravon gripped the man’s shoulder once more. “Good night, Noll.” With that, he turned and strode back to the camp, leaving Noll to stand guard alone in silence.
Zaharis alone remained awake—he hunched over a book, scribbling furiously with a stick of charcoal. The blue light of his alchemical lantern shone on the faces of his companions, all sleeping. Belthar had simply leaned back against the wall, his huge head lolling on his shoulders. Skathi, Colborn, and Captain Lingram had curled up in their blankets, while Rangvaldr’s soft snores rose from a thick bundle of furs.
Aravon hesitated a moment before turning back to his bedroll. He could speak to Rangvaldr tomorrow; the Seiomenn needed his rest after healing Captain Lingram’s arm.
As Aravon settled onto his blankets, he found the fatigue and emotions of the day crashing atop him like a tidal wave on the shores of Icespire. Everything they’d endured—the battle with the Rakki, the deaths of the Deadheads, his own near-fatal fall from the ramp, and the myriad of emotions of the day—seemed to slip from his mind, replaced with a bone-deep weariness.
Tomorrow’s problems could wait. He needed sleep, needed to give his mind and body a chance to recover.
Snarl waited for him in his blankets, already deep in his dreams. The Enfield didn’t so much as shift or snuffle as Aravon curled into his bedroll and fell asleep in a matter of seconds.
Chapter Thirty-Two
A quiet whine in Aravon’s ear snapped him awake.
For a moment, he didn’t know if his eyes were open or closed. Pitch blackness pressed in on him from all sides, like a leaden blanket smothering him, suffocating the breath in his lungs. No currents of air drifted past him, and the world was utterly still and noiseless. Only thick, choking silence and all-encompassing gloom enveloped him.
Life returned to one sensation at a time. First came the aches and pains—the bruises on his chest, the throbbing in his face, the tight, exhausted muscles of his legs, and too many more to count. Snarl’s body warm against his chest, the Enfield’s soft fur ruffling his face. The smell of sweat, dust, blood, and something foul…Noll’s boots, perhaps, or a long-dead animal. The quiet clacking of Snarl’s talons on the stone, nearly drowned out beneath Belthar’s rolling snores. Amber eyes gleaming bright a few inches from his face.
But Snarl wasn’t looking at him. The little Enfield had lifted his head above Aravon’s shoulder and stared at something in the darkness beyond.
Rolling over in his blankets, Aravon sought the object of Snarl’s attention. A dark, broad-shouldered figure stood silhouetted against a soft blue glow. Little more than a glimmer of light, yet there was no mistaking that brilliant gleam.
Slowly, making as little noise as possible, Aravon rose to his feet and picked his way through the sleeping soldiers to where Rangvaldr stood at the edge of the tunnel, hand held out over the empty void of the mine shaft. The Seiomenn’s eyes locked on the shining gemstone nestled in his open palm. A seething torrent of emotions played across his face.
“Rangvaldr.” Aravon spoke in a quiet voice, barely above a whisper.
Rangvaldr half-jumped and whirled toward Aravon. “Swina bqllr, Captain!” His fingers closed reflexively around his pendant, plunging them into darkness once more. Darkness that hid the turmoil digging sharp claws into his mind and heart.
“You ready to tell me what’s been going on?” Aravon asked, equally quietly.
Silence hung in the air for three long heartbeats before the Seiomenn responded. “What makes you think anything is wrong?”
“The Rangvaldr I’ve been marching with for the last few weeks would never have been caught off-guard,” Aravon said. “Nor would he have hesitated even a second before helping someone that needed his healing. I’ve seen that man nearly kill himself using his holy stones. But this Rangvaldr…” He trailed off; now came the Seiomenn’s chance to speak, but Aravon had learned that pushing the man too hard only made him all the more stubborn.
To his surprise, Rangvaldr’s derisive snort broke the silence. “Holy! What a lie.”
Aravon’s eyebrows shot up. He’d been prepared for all manner of responses, but the Seiomenn’s words took him by surprise. “How so?”
Rangvaldr uncurled his fingers, and the gleam of the blue gemstone once against pushed back the darkness. “What is holy about this stone?” The soft glow deepened the lines around his mouth, which curled into a bitter sneer. “To me, it looks like nothing more than a chunk of rock.”
“Rock that can heal,” Aravon insisted. “Using magic. Magic, Rangvaldr!” Wonder echoed in his voice. “That stone gives you the power to save lives, to pull people back from the brink of death.”
“Does it, though?” A bitter sneer curled Rangvaldr’s lip upward. “Tell that to Endyn.”
The biting vehemence in those words rocked Aravon to the core.
“I nearly died trying to heal him, and look how that worked out.” Rangvaldr gave a sharp shake of his head. “His illness came back, and far worse than before I touched him.” His words dripped venom and resentment. “I thought I could save him. Instead, I killed him.” A snarl twisted his face. “Bloody holy, indeed!”
Aravon’s eyes widened as the Seiomenn held his hand out over the abyss and twisted his palm, preparing to drop it.
“What are you doing?” Aravon snatched the gemstone pendant from Rangvaldr’s hand before he let it fall. “Just because you couldn’t heal Endyn, that doesn’t mean—”
“Not just Endyn!” Rangvaldr rounded on him, eyes blazing. “Harlund. The wounded of Icespire, Steinnbraka Delve, Hangman’s Hill, and so many more. Too many more. I was too weak. Like you said, I’ve nearly killed myself trying to help people these last few weeks. And for years now, ever since I took up the mantle of Seiomenn. But what for?” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “Why have I given of myself when anyone can use the stones?”
Confusion twisted in Aravon’s gut. “What are you talking about? You’re the only one who can use them.”
“No.” Again, a vehement shake of Rangvaldr’s head. “I’m just the only one who knows the words. But as Zaharis proved, there’s nothing holy about these stones.” His hand reached out, as if to take the pendant from Aravon’s hand. “They’re just bloody alchemy!”
Aravon pulled his hand back, out of Rangvaldr’s grasp. “You’re angry because Zaharis found a way to make another holy stone using his alchemy?”
“I’m angry,” Rangvaldr hissed, “because everything I’ve believed for decades has been a lie!”
Aravon’s jaw dropped.
“All these years, I’ve known my faith brought these stones to life.” Rangvaldr’s mouth twisted as if his words left a bitter taste on his tongue. “That it was Nuius’ reward to me for my belief and trust in him. If my heart was true and my conviction unwavering, he would use me as his vessel to bless those around me. To bring his healing mercy to those who needed it.”
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��And is that not the case?” Aravon raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that the magic of the stones isn’t the result of your faith?”
“Because even when I doubted, the magic still worked!” Rangvaldr hissed. “Back at Camp Marshal, since seeing what Zaharis’ stone could do, I felt my faith shaken. If a disbeliever like Zaharis could create such a thing, I asked myself, how could my pendant truly be holy? And when I spoke the words that brought this stone to life to heal Harlund, filled with doubt as I was, I knew the truth.” Fury blazed bright and hot in his eyes. “There is nothing holy about it.”
Aravon studied the man, speechless. Rangvaldr’s faith had been the source of his strength when he first took up arms against the Eirdkilrs—and his own kindred, the Jokull. The Seiomenn’s belief in Nuius’ call had driven him to join the Grim Reavers. Aravon had met few men as devout and sincere in their belief as Rangvaldr, so to hear the Seiomenn speak thus, to see the doubt tormenting him, tore at Aravon’s heart.
“Tell me, Rangvaldr.” Aravon spoke in a slow, calm voice. “What does the word ‘holy’ truly mean?”
Rangvaldr’s bushy white eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“The word,” Aravon pressed. “In your tongue, what does the word mean?”
Rangvaldr’s face drew into a scowl. “Heilagr,” he spoke the Fehlan word. “It means ‘of the gods’.”
“So, by that logic, for these stones to truly be holy, they would need to be ‘of the gods’?” Aravon asked. “Of Nuius?”
“Yes.” Rangvaldr nodded. “And, thanks to Zaharis, we all know they are not.”
“Perhaps.” Aravon gave a little shrug. “But in the language of the Princelanders, the Einari word ‘holy’ has a different meaning. Or, multiple meanings.” He gestured to the Seiomenn. “Yes, there is that connotation of something holy being ‘of the gods’ or ‘from the gods’. But some priests and scholars use the word to speak of something ‘dedicated to the service of the gods’. Something sacred. Either created or made sacred.”
The Seiomenn’s forehead furrowed, his eyes narrowing.
Aravon held up the stone. “As Zaharis proved, we can be fairly certain Nuius did not make this stone or give it its power. Or, better said,” he corrected, “Nuius is not the only source of that power.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Rangvaldr inclined his head.
“But tell me, Rangvaldr, can you truly believe that something with this much power—the power to bring life, to save, to heal—is not truly made sacred?” Aravon leaned forward, fixing the Seiomenn with an intent gaze. “Even if it was nothing more than Zaharis’ alchemical creation at first, would it not become a ‘holy’ object as it was used in service to Nuius? It became holy because of how it was used.”
That surprised Rangvaldr. His eyes widened a fraction and he seemed torn between confusion, the urge to argue, and a deep-rooted desire to believe in the god he’d served for decades.
“You have never used these stones in hatred or anger,” Aravon pressed. “You have never withheld aid from those in need. You have never attempted to turn their power against your enemies. Instead, you gave of your time and strength to attend to those fallen foes.” Back at Rivergate, Rangvaldr had spent hours praying for the Jokull slain in battle. “You have used them in your mission to bring peace to Fehl. The very same mission to which you believed Nuius called you.”
Rangvaldr appeared at a loss for words. He didn’t shift, didn’t open his mouth to try and protest, but simply stood silent, eyes fixed on Aravon.
Aravon looked down at the stone. “If this stone was created by the gods—Nuius, the Mistress, or any of the other gods of Einan and Fehl—we may never know.” He shook his head. “But does that really matter? Does it really matter where they came from? You don’t question where your sword and shield came from, simply how well they serve you in battle. You know they are tools that serve your purposes, so there is no room for doubt. They simply are, whether or not you believe in them.”
Now Rangvaldr’s eyes dropped to the glowing blue gemstone in Aravon’s hand.
“This stone is, Rangvaldr.” Hope surged within Aravon; he was getting through to the man. “As real and tangible as your sword and shield. And with it, you are given a gift that few in this world ever receive.”
“What gift?” A spark of his anger returned, yet tempered by curiosity.
“Proof.” Aravon smiled. “My entire life, I have served the Swordsman. I have dedicated my life to his service, placed my safety and that of my family in his hands, and trusted him to guide me down the path he has laid out for me. But what proof do I have that he even exists?” He gestured at the darkness of the mine shaft and the stone tunnel behind him. “I’ve seen no thunderclaps, heard no ringing voices in the night sky. Yet I serve the Swordsman because I have faith that he exists.”
“That makes one of us.” Bitterness laced Rangvaldr’s words.
“But don’t you see?” Aravon held the stone up before the Seiomenn’s face. “This is all the proof you need that your faith is real!” A smile broadened across his face. “Not your faith that Nuius exists or waits for you in Seggrholl. We won’t know the truth of that until this life is over and we go to whatever awaits us. But you have proof that you are obeying the call in your heart—Nuius’ call—to serve your people, to fight to bring peace, to spread his healing mercy across Fehl to those in need. And every time you speak those words and feel the power spring to life, you can know that you are doing precisely what he wants you to do. And in doing so, you consecrate it by using it in his service.” He pressed the stone into Rangvaldr’s hand and closed the Seiomenn’s fingers around it. “You make the stone holy.”
Rangvaldr’s jaw dropped. Long seconds passed in stunned silence. “B-But, Zaharis’ stone…”
“Think about why he was so intent on discovering it.” Aravon glanced over his shoulder at the Secret Keeper—Zaharis had fallen asleep with the book still open on his lap, charcoal writing stick in hand. “He did it in service to his goddess, the Mistress. It is her will that he dedicates himself to discovering the hidden secrets of this world. And what could be a greater secret than that? Because of his faith in the Mistress, it could be argued that his stone is as holy as yours, albeit in service to a different deity.”
Skepticism flashed across Rangvaldr’s expression. “That’s a wide gap to bridge, Captain.”
“True.” Aravon smiled. “But theology’s not really my strong suit. I’m a soldier, not a theorist.” He chuckled. “I’m more at home reading military history than the works of doctrine, theology, or, Swordsman forbid…” He gave a theatrical shudder. “…philosophy.”
“You certainly could have fooled me.” For the first time in what felt like weeks, a ghost of a smile cracked Rangvaldr’s deep age-and-trouble-lined face. “That sounded an awful lot like Seiomenn wisdom. You’re missing the hair and beard, but we might yet make something of you.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Aravon gave a wry shake of his head. “I’ll leave that sort of deep thinking to you. Give me a battle map and an enemy to face any day.”
Rangvaldr’s smile widened. “Now you sound more like a soldier.”
Aravon grinned. “You’re too kind.” He sobered a moment later, his smile dimming. “I understand that something like this can shake you to the core of your being. But you might be surprised to find you’re not alone in this.”
Rangvaldr cocked his head, surprise flashing in his green eyes. “Oh?”
Aravon glanced over his shoulder again at Zaharis. “He’s dedicated his life to a mission he believes is holy, but his own brothers—the man he loved among them—want him dead.” He winced. “That’s not an easy draught to swallow for anyone.”
The Seiomenn’s expression grew pensive. Long moments of silence elapsed between them. Finally, Rangvaldr nodded. “Thank you, Captain.”
“You’re not just a Grim Reaver, Rangvaldr—you’re my friend.” A sly smile tugged at Aravon’s lips. “And it’s my job to
keep you from utterly and totally cocking up the mission, remember?”
Rangvaldr rolled his eyes. “And you just had to go and ruin our pleasant moment!” He threw up his hands, a look of mock exasperation on his face. “Now leave me in peace, so I can pray to Nuius to save your soul from the damnation that awaits all ignorant heathens.”
“Thanks!” Aravon laughed and clapped the man on the back. “Say a few extra prayers for Noll, yeah?”
Rangvaldr gave him a dismissive wave and turned back to the edge of the mine shaft without another word.
Aravon strode back toward his bed, but before settling into his blankets, he glanced back at Rangvaldr. The Seiomenn still stood at the edge of the abyss, staring down at the dim-glowing gemstone in his open palm. Yet his shoulders had straightened, a great weight lifted from his back.
Hope blossomed within Aravon. Rangvaldr’s faith had been rocked, the solid foundation upon which he’d built his life shattered. The journey back to belief and faith might take a while—Swordsman knew such deep-rooted convictions never came easy, even after such a devastating blow. But in the all-consuming darkness of these tunnels, the Seiomenn had taken the first step.
A smile spread Aravon’s lips as he curled up in his blankets and fell asleep once more.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“Captain, we’ve got a problem.” Anxiety echoed in Colborn’s voice. “We’re almost out of feed for the horses.”
Aravon looked up from his task—strapping his pack in place behind his saddle—and met Colborn’s worry-darkened gaze. “That shouldn’t be possible. We made sure to bring more than enough food.”
During their journey through the Jarnleikr highlands, they had ridden across vast hills carpeted with a type of sedge grass Zaharis had called Rustle Thickgrass. Evidently, when mixed with the oil of a very specific thistle—Crimson Thistle, which also grew in abundance in the highlands—it provided ten times the nutrition found in alfalfa, oats, and other horse feed.
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