The Four Forges

by Jenna Rhodes

  “This is kedant. It’s a venom, Sevryn. It’s been diluted, but only a bit, for my purposes. It is rather like pouring salt on open wounds, only it has a more lasting quality.”

  His flesh hissed and burned as the drops ran into the bloody cut. Like a hot brand, it seared into the ragged edges of his body with a fire that ate throughout him, consuming him in agony even as it cauterized and tormented, and he let out a low moan, a keening, unable to hold it in. Tressandre laughed joyfully as if he’d presented her with a gift. “You will heal quickly, but the kedant seals itself in the scars, ever present. It takes a very, very long time to dissipate. Every time I . . . or anyone . . . touches you here.” She put her palm over his thigh. “Or here.” His stomach. “Or here.” His flank. “You shall throb and burn and ache with the pain of it. It shall not heal fully for a very, very long time. Even for a half blood, a long time can stretch near forever.”

  She ran her bloodied fingers over his face, caressing him tenderly, outlining his features as if learning him by touch. “I am not waiting for you to talk.” She smiled again, softly, her lips curving.

  His breath stopped a moment. She had no purpose for what she was doing other than her own pleasure, and he could do nothing to appease that until she was finished. Sevryn fought to breathe again, roughly.

  Quickly, she etched two more lacerations along his thighs, close enough to skirt his privates, tender skin there screaming in agony as she did, and blood seeped out between his clenched teeth from his lacerated mouth. She laid the knives down.

  “Realize this. She sent you back knowing what may happen. If she had ever been as close to you as I have, she would know you’re a resource that should not be squandered. I know what you are capable of, far better than she. She must be desperate.” Tressandre wet her fingers again in his blood and licked each one clean, slowly, deliberately. Then she held her hands before her, turning them this way and that, as if inspecting them, before dropping them to rest on the tabletop as she leaned his way. “If not today, then soon you’ll come to me. I have the only release from the kedant. And when you tell me what I need to know, we will be prepared, even if our Warrior Queen is not. Some of us have an appetite, a need, for blood and death that she seeks to avoid.”

  Tressandre stretched close, whispered to his ear. “And when I send you home to her, you will remember that. She would call her healer to you, but her healer won’t be there. She is gone to Tomarq where Tranta ild Istlanthir has fallen from the cliff of the Jewel. He lives still, although he has little memory, I am told, and he may even walk again, but that is gossip only. When her healer returns, there will be no respite for you, until I wish to give it.” She traced his shaft which had not softened, despite the roar of pain through his body and the pounding of his heart. “It is pain and only pain that keeps us truly open to pleasure.”

  Tressandre turned and left him then, to recover, more or less, or until she was ready to let him go. When she shut the door, he let loose his Voice in a scream of anger that no one else could hear through the carved stone of the chamber.

  Chapter Thirty

  THE SPARE FIGURE ENTERED the pavilion without fanfare, the guards parting to let him through without introduction, despite their bristling efficiency and alertness, although they looked him over. The sword sheathed at his back drew their hard glances, but they looked away quickly as if they could not bear to stare at it, and fear glimmered deep in their weary eyes. The man sitting at the far end of the pavilion, his head lowered over maps and charts flung across a table looked up without a word. The intruder bowed and then dropped to his knees, drawing the great war hammer from his belt and laying it across the floor at the booted feet of Quendius.

  “It is not as forged. A good weapon but not great, though it holds a Demon inside it. I’ve failed you.”

  “And you know this because . . .”

  “The Shield of Tomarq still stands.”

  “Did it take any damage at all?”

  “A few powdery splinters fell from it, but it did not fracture or cease in its vigil of the ocean. I thought it faltered, though I cannot be sure.” The kneeling man flexed his hands. “My senses are not what they were.”

  Nothing about him was as it had once been, even more so than he could guess. Quendius gazed upon Narskap, his Vaelinar form little more than steel inside skin, so lean had he become, with great shoulders and arms from working at the forge, and more than a little madness in his eyes. Quendius was taller and bulkier than the other by far, but he respected him. “They are greater,” the weaponmaster commented, not unkindly.

  “It does not excuse the failure.”

  Quendius shifted in his campaign chair, the leather creaking as he did, the stormy nature of his eyes shifting as well with the thoughts in his mind. His sooty skin took on the aspect of shadows, playing back and forth across his body. He toed the hammer. “The power of Gods and Demons varies as much as the strengths of mortal flesh, it seems. I have a use for the hammer, as it is. Perhaps it is not meant that I should carry a weapon as demanding as the sword you carry. I have the first blade.” He paused, thinking. “I can use this, however. Yes, I can. It will serve as bait.”

  The other raised his seamed face. “For whom?”

  “Abayan Diort.” And Quendius grinned broadly.

  “Then, with your leave, I will go to my tower.” Narskap looked upward. “Have it bolted from without, and I will bolt my door from within, as well.”

  The grin bled from his lord’s dark face. “Is this necessary?”

  “It is.” The other’s steely body vibrated, as if he went to great effort to control it, even bowed in rest at Quendius’ feet. “You’ll know when it’s safe to unbolt the door.” Without another word, Narskap got to his feet and made his way across the keep to a far tower, armored and isolated, and within a candlemark, the keep echoed with a howling that raised the hair upon the flesh, a howling of despair and madness, the keening of one who fought both himself and Gods and Demons. It might go on for days before it would cease and the door to the tower could be unbolted.

  Quendius did not move from his seat until the howling began, and then he stood to pick up the great war hammer lying on the floor. It tingled in his grip, and it spoke to him in a low, guttural tone of the damned being captured within it, a minor God of little ability it seemed, and he ignored it. Its only use now would be to entrap Diort. He called for his scribe and set that in motion.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ABAYAN DIORT SITS ON a throne of melted slag which was once a great relic used by the Magi of Kerith, under a canopy against the blazing sun that burns down inexorably upon the warlands. If one had eyes keener than a hawk, one could think he saw the various sigils of the Magi etched into the metal, each of a different discipline and pride with their own cadre of pledged followers and Galdarkan guards. Each is now dead and gone, only their guards left to hold their pledges, still at odds with each other as were the Mageborn who warred among themselves. Only the battle is different, confined to minor territory skirmishes and a hearty dislike of each clan. It keeps them scattered, at each other’s throats, holds them a far distance from the greatness that could be theirs if they would but join together.

  The throne is nearly all that is left of the Shrine of the Sun. A small, wadded-up piece of parchment is hidden in the palm of his fist. He has read it and will not look at it again. He surveys what is left of his kingdom, the seared and oft infertile warlands, but the plains are vast and, as the nomads that his people have become, it is survivable. Some clans even prosper. They inhabit the ruins of the past, rebuilding around it carefully so as not to disturb the reminders of what was and what happened. They are Galdarkans, inheritors of the Magi kingdom after they destroyed themselves and it, and even the Galdarkans could not hold onto the ruins. It ran through their fingers like fine-grained sand.

  His fist closes ever more tightly about the hated letter. The sun beats even more gold into his copper hair, and his eyes of smoky jade se
em to drink of the summer-blue sky overhead, deepening into a truer green, and when he gets to his feet, he towers over even the other tall Galdarkans standing to wait for him. As he frowns, the tattoo of leadership on his right cheekbone appears to flash more vividly, the ink ebony. He reaches to the messenger bird, a small, fine-boned falcon, resting on its perch. It makes an affectionate chirp as Abayan strokes its breast feathers. It nibbles its carved beak down his finger. Then both hands wrap about its throat and he strangles the bird and cracks its neck before throwing it down lifeless.

  “Find me another falcon,” he orders. “One with feathers not so ill-omened.”

  A woman behind him has risen quietly, in his shadow, her body of Vaelinarran slenderness, her beauty bespeaking that of those called elven on Kerith. She puts her hand on his shoulder, and leaves with the guards to fetch another messenger bird.

  Left to himself except for two lieutenants under the canopy which scarcely holds back the sun at all, Abayan throws his head back and glares out at the warlands. “The Ways must be taken,” he declares. “They strangle my country. They will either be mine, or destroyed. They are webs of deceit and the makers of them shall pay for enslaving our country.” And he drops the message in his hand into a small fire of incense smoking at the rim of the Shrine of the Sun, and watches as it turns to light gray ash. “Destroyed or mine,” he repeats.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “WE HAVE AN APPLE PRESS.” Tolby took a rag out of his back pocket and wiped his brow and head with it, then dusted off his hands before shoving it back into his pocket with a grunt of satisfaction. “And a damned fine one, if I say so myself. We’ll have a good line of hard cider stocked by while I get the crusher and press ready for the grapes. It’ll be a fair amount of work for us, but I think we’re up to it.”

  “Grapes won’t be ready for picking till nearly first frost anyway, Da.”

  “Well, I know that. It’s to our advantage. We’ll have this old place in shape by then, I think. Time for me to teach you all a bit about wine making.” He looked about the area in satisfaction. The immense warehouse had been transformed from a cavernous wreck to a building with equipment, barrels, and racks, all ready to store, process, and eventually ferment. “Tell you what, though. Today’s the end of some hard work. I say a bit of a holiday is called for. Lasses, Lily said for you to come down to the shop if I was done with you before noon, and I am. Lads, come with me. I feel like a bit of a smoke and some tale-spinning. Time to reacquaint the city with the Farbranches.” He scratched his chin at that.

  “Let me come with you, Da.” Nutmeg reached over and put her hand on her father’s arm. “You know I love the old stories.”

  “Not today. Back home, the toback shop is a fit place for a woman to visit now and then, but I can’t say how it would be here. Might be a bit rough for a female, and she unwelcome at that. Let me see how it looks, and later I’ll sneak you in for a tale or two, a’right?”

  Nutmeg wrinkled her nose at that, but nodded in agreement, even as she took off her apron and shook it. Motes of dust swirled about in the bright sunlight streaming through the wide-flung doors. Rivergrace hesitated as she took off her scarf and apron and shook them out. She had not yet been to the shop or walked the streets of Calcort.

  “Best clean up,” Tolby warned. “Lily wants the two of you more than presentable. And mind you stay away from that boarded-up well in back. ’Tis closed off for a reason. Likely, it dried up, but if not, it could be poisoned with disease. You use the pump off the side porch, even if it’s slow, you hear?”

  “We hear.” Nutmeg touched Rivergrace’s wrist at that, knowing how her sister was always drawn to water. Neither of them had been out to investigate the old well, sunken and disreputable looking, boarded up and choked over with dried caroweeds whose tiny yellow and wizened fruit attracted wee songbirds every morning and evening.

  Rivergrace echoed a soft word in agreement and turned away as the boys buffeted one another, patting themselves down for their own hand-carved pipes.

  Grace led the way back to the house which had been set to rights under Lily’s hand, clean and shining as it could be, although Tolby had promised to rebuild walls and rooms as they went. She ducked into the small back room which the two of them shared and quickly washed down in the basin of water they’d left waiting, throwing the used water out in the garden, and drawing a fresh one for Nutmeg. She changed her blouse and bodice, then brushed her hair out on the back porch as she waited for her sister. Far across the yard, at the edge of the house grounds, she watched tiny city birds sit upon the boarded-up well, and chirp and fight with each other for the tiny swarm of gnats hanging about, their feathers flashing with brown and gold and bronze tones.

  She rose and walked to the well and tried to peer down through the weeds crowding the boarded cover. She could feel the dampness below. She missed the Silverwing, the sound and feel of running water. Grace toed the tall, gnarled weeds growing about the mouth of the well, just beginning to think about something that she lost when Nutmeg’s whistle pierced the air behind her. She whirled around to see Nutmeg waving her bodice about.

  “Come lace me!”

  “I had better. You can’t go prancing about the streets any other way!” Laughing, she joined Nutmeg and promptly laced her firmly into her garment. She held a small note in her hands, the way to the shop marked in Lily’s small, neat script.

  “Think we look fit enough?”

  The two eyed one another. One tall and slender, the other shorter and well-curved, both clean, dressed in sweeping skirts, blouses, and embroidered bodices, ribbons in their shining hair. The corners of Rivergrace’s mouth turned up. “I think we look fit for a Spring fair.”

  “Good. Mom doesn’t want us scaring off any customers!” Nutmeg tugged her blouse into a slightly more comfortable position. “Let’s hurry. I’m starving, and I don’t want to miss a lunch if she’s putting one out.” She handed the note to Rivergrace, took up her kerchief handbag, and they set out from the side yard.

  A small crowd had gathered by the pressing house, and they paused. Tolby stopped in mid-gesture, and pointed at them to the curious Kernans and Dwellers, men and women, lads and lasses, surrounding him. “My two daughters, Nutmeg and Grace. Inside, you’ll find my brawny sons hard at work. Or you best be finding them.”

  Surprised, they dropped in slight curtsies. Nutmeg said, unabashed, “What’s going on, Da?”

  “Neighbors,” he responded. “Come to say their greetings.” With that, he gestured back at the pressing house, inviting them in to see the work he’d done. Nutmeg watched them go with a grin.

  “Da,” she said.

  Grace smiled. “It takes a good neighbor to find good neighbors, right?”

  “Or curious ones. Did they look like kittens?”

  “They,” said Rivergrace firmly, “looked like city folk. And so do we, tardy ones!” She tugged on Nutmeg’s sleeve to hurry her out to the streets.

  By foot, it was much farther than it had seemed on the cart, getting from the corner where their property spread out to the more crowded lane of homes and shops. Their new property, at the northeastern corner of the sprawling city, actually lay beyond the city gates, along with other small estates. Steep cliffs to the north and along the lake to the east protected them as well as the city wall did, it seemed. Rivergrace hoped they would find the bakery which gave off such wonderful smells of hot bread in the middle of the night, borne on the summer air in a tantalizing aroma. The lane began to be peopled, and oh, such people. Anyone she could imagine filled the lanes. Maids walking about with baskets on their head, filled with that bread she smelled baking at night, calling for fresh loaves and buns. Lads running through, carrying messages and packages for delivery, shouting, “Make way! Give way!” They ran by without waiting to see if anybody did, sometimes knocking people off their feet, and curses would rain after them.

  Some of the wooden signs hanging out on the street they could easily recognize. Shoe
s, harnessworkers, metalsmiths, jewelers. They paused before one that showed two hands reaching out for one another, the sign swinging back and forth in a gentle breeze, and they contemplated it. Nutmeg tilted her head one way and then the other before saying tentatively, “A healer.”

  The words had scarcely left her mouth before a delivery lad burst out of the door, slinging his leather satchel over his shoulder. “Make way,” he said importantly. “I’ve documents to deliver! Contracts! Give way!” and he dashed off between the two of them before they could take a step to the side, his satchel banging Rivergrace in the side. Startled, she laughed at herself, and Nutmeg, too, for standing about with their mouths open, wondering.

  They decided it might be dangerous to stand about that shop any longer and moved on quickly. There were candlemakers and soap shops and perfumeries, all richly scenting the air with their various aromas. There were paper sellers and ink sellers. They did not gawk at the Dwellers, Kernans, and Bolgers walking the streets, going about their business or hawking their wares, but they did watch the few Vaelinars who strode among them, far more visible than the two had ever seen them before, and . . . this intrigued Rivergrace, veiled. They wore hats or thin gauze masks that covered their faces and their eyes like a galaxy of jeweled colors from view, and they moved through the crowd with unknowable purpose.

  They needed no delivery boy to shoulder people away. The citizenry simply stood aside, with narrowed expressions, giving them all the room they needed to pass in the crowded lanes. Words followed in their wake, gone seemingly unheard, a phrase of honor now and then, but more often a low, muttered curse.

  A cobbler sitting outside upon his stool, brushes quickly buffeting and polishing a pair of boots, spat, “Bloody slavers,” as a well-dressed gentleman passed him by without acknowledgment, but the words dashed upon Rivergrace like a spray of icy water caught in the scorn. He looked up, meeting her shock. “Beg pardon, m’lady, but truth is truth.” His calloused hands went back to polishing the boots vigorously.