In the dim illumination of a tallow candle angled lazily in a brass holder, Sir Reginald Hunt slumped over his dining table with a glass tumbler in one hand and a bottle of Barleycorn’s rumbullion in the other. His face was an overgrown forest of two-week-old stubble, his hair a disheveled nest of inattention. Heavy bags of weariness hung beneath bloodshot eyes, and his head rarely lifted from his drink.
Lilane Hunt had left him, but not officially. Or so she had said. Not yet, anyway. She had gone to live with her sister in Elandra “to give him time to figure things out.” Whether true marital separation was forthcoming was a matter of conjecture—on both their parts—but it was not yet a certainty.
He was undone, ruined by the twisting ploys of Nephreqin machinations that delivered an entrée of damning confessions covered in the sauce of deception and served with a side of threats on the lives of his loved ones. He could wash it down with guilt, or he could die. Since Montpeleón had not killed him, and he could not bear to kill himself, Hunt found his only recourse to be the warm, slow demise of stout Dokari spirits. Lieutenant Reimart would assume command, as he had been doing. Lilane had her family. And he, the once proud captain, would just fade away unnoticed. And free.
Montpeleón sighed and stepped away from the front window of Hunt’s estate. It was worse than he’d thought. A tool is valuable only as long as it can function, but a broken tool tells a tale of abuse.
He pounded on the front door, hoping the sound of urgency would stir Hunt into action.
“Go away.” Hunt drawled.
Montpeleón hammered the door again, but Hunt exploded with a string of epithets like one of the Scorighauts ejecting molten rock and ashfall. “Leave me the rink alone!” Glass shattered against the door, followed by another curse.
After checking his surroundings, Montpeleón inserted a key into the lock and cautiously peered inside. “Hunt?”
The captain took a swig straight from the bottle and slammed it onto the table. “Rink off, I said!”
Carefully avoiding splinters of glass, Montpeleón stepped inside and closed the door, relocking it behind him.
A despairing growl burst from Hunt’s throat. “You!”
Montpeleón observed this wreck of a man from a safe distance. “I’ve been away on a business trip,” he began, “but I heard you were not faring well. A fever, I believe Reimart said it was, so I came to check on you. But I think the only fever you have was brought on by your excessive drink.”
“Burn in th’ Nine Hellth!” Hunt seethed.
“I see…”
“I’m rurnt. Ya done rurnt me.”
“First of all…” Montpeleón cradled a thoughtful hand around his chin, “I never knew you had a country accent. I’m impressed you kept that a secret for so long. I promise I won’t divulge this little morsel to the public, or your manifest drunkenness, which, I must say, truly pains me to see. I figured you for a man of greater fortitude than that, but then I’ve never imbibed anything from the Barleycorns before. If this is the result, you will serve as my fair warning not to.”
“What the rink do ya want?”
Montpeleón eyed an unattended chair at the table opposite Hunt. “As I said, I came to check on you. I feared you had taken a winter chill. I had planned to perform a soothing spellsong to help with sleep or aid in natural healing, but this is altogether different. And it’s not good. I’m certain the High Council has never entertained a drunkard among its number.”
Hunt’s glassy stare shot daggers. “Only traitors…”
Montpeleón nodded appreciatively. “Yes, well, there is that. But the thing with traitors is that they operate undercover, behind closed doors. It’s a strength, really. Drunkenness…that’s a very public matter. Sullies the image; tarnishes the reputation.” He inched toward the open chair and took a seat.
Hunt glowered at him the whole way, his left hand clutching his bottle as if it were holding him upright. “So…ya come to kill me?”
“By the All-Father, no!” Montpeleón said with a recoil. “Weren’t you listening when we last spoke?” He shook his head sadly. The captain had slumped forward onto his right arm and clutched the nearly empty bottle to the side of his face as he half-mumbled something into the tabletop.
Montpeleón pushed back his chair, then gave the table a quick tug towards himself.
The bottle in Hunt’s hand toppled back as the table slid across the floor, and Hunt’s intoxicated body toppled with it. He smacked his forehead on the table’s edge, then crumpled and flopped face down onto the wooden floor. The bottle clanked beside him and slowly leaked its contents into a shallow pool under his arm.
Montpeleón leaned over and regarded Hunt lying motionless beneath the table. “Well, I guess it won’t matter what I tell you now.”
With a sigh, he pushed the table back to its original position. “We’re both pawns in the same game of chaturanga, Hunt. The main difference is that I understand this, while you continue to act as if your old, boring life is the true reality. I know the Decree overshadows my life and pulls me wherever it wills, that the All-Father both demands my fealty and assures my utility. You, on the other hand…” Montpeleón walked around the table and stood over the unconscious captain. After a moment of thought, he leaned over and attempted to pick Hunt’s limp body off the floor. “You…” he said with a grunt, “…are heavy!”
Several struggling minutes later, Montpeleón finally hoisted Hunt’s wilted form back onto his chair and balanced him there. “You’re a mess, and you smell awful. And that’s just the problem. Folks are talking, asking what’s wrong. They want to know why you’ve holed up in your house and why Lilane left town all alone. You’re an alderman of Westmeade, Hunt, and people expect a certain caliber of person from someone in that position. But they’re not seeing that in you, and it concerns them.”
Montpeleón shook his head at the slumped figure. “The Watcher would have me kill you.”
He left Hunt’s side and wandered to the private rooms of the house. After rummaging through several drawers and cabinets, he returned to the captain bearing a straight razor in his hand. He looked down at Hunt’s neck, exposed to the room as his head draped across the back of the chair.
“All right,” Montpeleón said with a quick sigh, “let’s see what this blade will do.”
In the gray light of an overcast morning, Sir Reginald Hunt began to stir. He squinted, then groaned and tossed an arm across his eyes.
Montpeleón shifted in a cushioned chair near the foot of the captain’s bed, his hands folded in his lap. “Good morning, Hunt.”
Hunt slowly lowered his arm and peered into the gray bleakness, his disoriented glances casting about between pained blinks. Each bloodshot eye struggled for dominance before finally focusing on the owner of the voice.
“Cripe…” he muttered.
“I wondered how long it would take you to awaken,” Montpeleón replied in a pleasant tone.
Hunt pulled his blanket over his head. “Nine Hells, man. Get outta my house.”
“Now, now…that’s no way to treat a friend.”
“If I didn’t have such a blinding headache right now, I’d…” A pained groan drowned his words.
“You’d what, kill me? Beat me? Throw me out?” Montpeleón held out his arms. “How about thank me.”
“For what?” Hunt pulled the blanket down and glared across his bed.
Montpeleón chuckled softly. “‘For what’…that’s rich, Hunt. I shaved your face, bathed you, dressed you in fresh clothing, and put you to bed…all while you were a heavy, limp, uncooperative pile of self-pity. I washed your dishes, swept your floors, and mopped up that perfectly horrible liquor in your dining room. I also did you the immense favor of pouring out the remainder of that rotgut you seemed inclined to use for liquid suicide. Had I not come by, you may very well have poisoned yourself. Seriously, if you’re going to drown yourself with strong drink, at least take some pride in it.”
“Barleycorn’s rumbullion is twenty-five stallions a bottle, you nitwit.”
“That’s a shame.”
Hunt sat up and adjusted his pillow behind his back. “Why are you here?”
Montpeleón smiled warmly. “To rehabilitate you. You’re an alderman of Westmeade, a distinguished and medaled veteran of the Sentinel League, the captain of the city’s guard, and a fine gentleman. I’m here to lift you out of the morose sinkhole you’ve fallen in, to place a little pluck back into your step, to help you end this petulant funk you’re wallowing in. I thi—”
“You know what?” Hunt interrupted. “I am really tired of the Nephreqin showing up at my house and lecturing me on my sense of justice versus my duty to the Decree. I’ve had enough of those rinkin prying red eyes watching my every move. I’m done. To the Nine Hells with the Decree, and if my saying so means I’m dead before I see tomorrow, then so be it. Right now, dying seems a more honorable path to living this lie. Death for me means freedom from your entanglements.”
For a long minute, Montpeleón regarded the captain, silently pondering his words. And the ones he would say in reply.
Hunt closed his eyes again with a tired groan. “Please leave.”
Montpeleón stood and spread his arms wide. He slowly turned in place while singing a simple tune that gradually faded into silence. The room lost its familiar resonance to a dull deadness.
“There’s a dagger in the side table.” Hunt’s emotionless eyes indicated the night stand. “Be quick about it.”
“I’m going to put on some tea, Hunt,” Montpeleón said as he left the captain’s chambers. “Sit tight.”
As the water heated, Montpeleón sat at the newly cleaned dining table, staring at nothing. The Decree would have him kill Hunt for uttering such rebellious words. But he felt culpable for the man’s demise. Abuse of a tool breaks it; the only right response, then, is to repair the damage and make it fit for further use. Montpeleón purposed to restore the man, as dangerous a remedy as that might be. If the Watcher discovered he had tendered aid instead of disposing of the broken tool, his own life could be forfeited. Things hadn’t gone well in Everglade; he could not afford to compound those faults. But if there was any lesson learned in the employ of the Nephreqin, it was deception. The city believed Hunt was severely ill, and Montpeleón’s visit was in earnest. For the moment, the only risk was that the Watcher—or any of his Eyes—might discern the silencing aura he had woven around the house. He would play that off as necessary for the discussion of current ploys, particularly how and when to destroy the Company of Dragonslayers.
The teapot began to squeal, and Montpeleón stood and rubbed his face. This is going to be tricky.
He returned with two cups of tea and a jar of honey to find that Hunt had not moved.
“Sit up, Hunt. You need to drink this.”
The captain slowly obliged, and for a while the two men sipped their tea in shared silence.
“All right,” Montpeleón said as he set his teacup aside, “there’s probably not much time left on my silencing aura, so I’m going to fill your ears, and I need you to listen quickly.”
Hunt glared at him.
“Look…Reggie. Can I call you Reggie? I’m being completely sincere when I say I hate to see you like this. It pains me as your friend—we are friends, right? We’ve known each other for over nine years, and we’ve shared a lot of memories—a lot of important memories. Remember shutting down the thief ring in Sarvelle during the Consortium two years ago? Remember when your coach ran off the path in the Grottoes, and I was up to my knees in brackish mud trying to put that wheel back on? We’ve been through a lot together, Reggie, and—”
“Stop calling me Reggie.”
“Whatever you like. I’m trying to establish that I’m not your enemy. I understand what you’re going through because I understand you. Schumann—Bray—he didn’t. He tried to change you. To my great regret, I also tried to change you, but all I did was break you. The Decree would throw you out with the garbage, but I won’t do that. I believe there’s a place for you in the Kedethian Decree that requires only your obedience, not your complete undoing.”
Hunt folded his arms. “Isn’t that what the All-Tyrant wants?”
Montpeleón instinctively cringed at the pejorative moniker used of the Nephreqin’s supreme leader, but he held his tongue. “I get what you’re saying. Look, I’ve had a couple of weeks to mull over our recent conversations, and during that time I’ve had my eyes opened to matters going on behind the scenes. I was rebuked for losing control of some things. But I’ve been enlightened, shown the truth. It all makes a lot more sense to me.”
“Sounds like you had your life threatened, too.”
The acuity of Hunt’s statement stung Montpeleón. He looked Hunt squarely in the eyes. “Yes…I have been threatened. So, I adjusted. I figured it out. I learned how to accomplish what’s expected of me without losing my identity. That’s the grand deception, Hunt, ushering in the Decree while no one knows it, while everyone thinks you’re just a farmer, a soldier, or an alderman.”
“I don’t know what you’re driving at.”
“Listen quickly. You need to be repaired. You need to dress, stand tall, and return to your duties on the Council. For Reimart’s sake, you need to be the strong and vigilant captain of the Guard. For Lilane’s sake, you need to be her relaxed, pipe-smoking, tea-drinking husband. And for the Decree, you need to be ever-ready to perform your duties with what I like to call ‘creative obedience.’ Just like you did when you brought in extra soldiers to protect the castle when the Dragonslayers were on an assassin’s hit list.”
“Excuse me?” Hunt viewed the alderman askance.
“You foiled the assassinations, but no one suspected you were undermining the Decree because…you never actually did. You appeared to be doing your job as the captain. The Watcher didn’t know you were thwarting the plot, and the guardsmen didn’t know they were running a pointless exercise. It was a perfect charade, and I commend you for that.”
“Are you saying that half-baked obedience laced with subterfuge is perfectly acceptable under the Decree?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then what are you saying?”
Montpeleón sighed. Time was running out, and Hunt wasn’t connecting the dots. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice in case the shell of silence had ended. “The Decree calls for the removal of the Company of Dragonslayers because they exposed Bray’s mission and killed him.”
“Figures,” Hunt responded with a grunt.
“But I am going to interpret the Decree to mean removing them from the area, not removing them from among the living. And I need your help to make that happen.”
Hunt became statuesque, his stare fixed on Montpeleón long past being uncomfortable. “You want to save Cora’s life. You’re willing to risk everything to give the impression that you’re complying with the Decree while also satisfying your personal goals—saving the life of someone you love.” A smile slowly broke across his face. “So…I see we are not that much different.”
Montpeleón nodded. If he gained Hunt’s trust, together they could work wonders for the Decree in Westmeade. But if Hunt even hinted at exposing the plan, he would be dead within the hour. They both would be.
The sparkling, snowy countryside was blanketed in tranquility as the Company of Dragonslayers returned to Heavener on the main road. Such quietude gave Cora ample opportunity to reflect, and her thoughts wandered to all that had been revealed at Ordin’s gravesite. Foremost on her mind was the bewildering and hugely distressing fact that right now, swinging against Elric’s left hip, was an exquisite scimitar that somehow contained the mystic’s soul.
She recalled Selorian’s battle to retain control while wielding the Slayer, and she wondered whether the savant ever had any control to begin with. Would Elric face the same struggles? Would Ordin eventually wrest control of Elric’s will? Would the mystic speak through Elric’s mouth, uttering things that Elric would never say? Would Elric become a conduit for Ordin’s mystic spellcraft?
“How does the Mystic Assembly resurrect Ordin now?” Moffe asked aloud, after several miles had passed.
That was an even better question. “Are you certain the Assembly was planning to resurrect him?” Cora asked.
Moffe glanced back at the canvas bag securely strapped to his horse. “That’s what they said. They believe Ordin is the fulfillment of ancient prophecy, and they’re going to bring him back to life. Or, they were…”
“But Ordeen Clay is already alive in dees sword,” Cuauhtérroc reminded.
“He’s Swordin,” Elric chimed in.
“What do you think, Moffe?” Cora asked.
The warden shook his head. “I honestly don’t know. I never really put much stock in that prophecy to begin with. The text as I heard it was vague enough it could be interpreted practically any way you wanted, and it often was.” He shrugged. “Of course, I defer to the Mystic Assembly on these things. The Grand Hierophant will know the text better than anyone. Even Lady Tarnistorel agrees with the Assembly on this. But I’m not convinced myself.”
“Why not?”
Moffe reined in his mount and turned in his saddle to face Cora with an inquisitive look. He patted the canvas sack behind him. “For starters, he’s dead.”
Cuauhtérroc frowned. “No, he is in dees sword.”
Elric grasped the scimitar and raised it from his hip for all to see. “He’s Swordin! What? Oh…um, Ordin says to tell y’all yer a bunch of morons.”
“All right,” Cora said with a sigh, “let’s not go around in circles here. Suffice it to say this…this Ordin-sword complicates things significantly. Obviously, the scimitar must be returned to the mystics along with Ordin’s remains. Maybe they’ll know what to do.”
“Perhaps,” Moffe muttered as he nudged his horse forward again.
Miles rolled by as Moffe led the company eastward across the rolling hills of middle Alikon, avoiding major settlements along the way. Cora agreed with his reasoning: she also wanted no part of explaining to the Sentinel League why they were transporting a bag of bones.
As the day ended and the light of a waxing moon bedazzled the snow-covered pastures, Moffe bartered with a local rancher for a night in his hayloft. It was cozy and comfortable, their beds warm, and the conversation hopeful.
A wavering light appeared at the top of the staircase leading to the loft, gradually increasing in luminance as it approached the sleeping freeblades.
Elric stirred and opened his eyes. He squinted into the brightness and reached for his shortsword.
As if pulled straight from the forge, the blade glowed red in Elric’s hand, and he cried out in pain. The barn reverberated with his shout, but no one around him stirred. His allies breathed deeply as if having the most peaceful rest of their lives.
A brief flash flooded the loft with brilliant light, and Elric raised his arm to shade his eyes. A man appeared in the hayloft, wearing garments of the purest white limned in red embroidery. He walked quietly but with determination through the scattered sleeping bodies, making a line straight for Elric’s bed. As he approached, Elric distinguished thick gray hair and sparkling eyes.
“Argyle!” he whispered as loudly as he dared. He intended to jump to his feet and give the avatar of Light a hearty handshake, but his legs would not cooperate, as if he was pinned to his bedroll. His arms locked to his side, and Elric feared for his life. “Argyle?”
The man’s voice rattled the timbers. “Elric Reichtoven, son of Barclay, son of Saul, you claim to desire the mantle of paladin. You assert that you carry the sword for the Light, but you are at present more concerned with a supposed right to your fallen friend. You desire to represent the goodness of the Maker, but there is serious and growing doubt whether you have the level of devotion necessary to wield a sword of righteousness.”
Elric’s throat parched as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. He wanted to explain, to defend, to argue his way out of the gripping vise of condemnation. But there was nothing he could say. He could only listen and brace himself.
The avatar’s eyes shined with fire. “You may think this treatment harsh, but your testing has only begun.” Argyle reached a hand toward Elric’s chest. Glowing fingers spread wide and settled against his torso, searing him on contact.
Elric unleashed a panicked scream as each of the avatar’s fingers pushed through skin, muscle and bone as if he were composed of soft butter. A solid grip formed around Elric’s heart, then with a sudden lurch, the hand pulled free.
He thought he might throw up when Argyle’s hand opened to reveal his still-beating heart lying in the palm. He should have died, but that never happened. At the very least, he should have been lashing about in untold agony, but he felt nothing. Instead, Elric slumped where he sat and waited.
Argyle examined the beating heart in his hand with a keen eye, then he lifted his gaze. “This is a test of your worthiness to bear the Maker’s sword. You are not the typical choice for a divine warrior—ignorant, uncouth, undignified, silly, mercenary, superficial, and brash. Because of these unsavory traits, you must be tested. Yet, in spite of them, you have captured the Maker’s attention. Now, when I squeeze your heart, what color will be the blood that pours out?”
“Squeeze my heart!” Elric exclaimed. “Whatever for?”
“This is the test all paladins must endure.”
“But…but I thought we’s s’posed to ride an’ joust an’ run the gauntlet an’ like such as. Nobody said nothin’ ‘bout squishin’ my heart!”
Argyle raised an eyebrow. “How many paladins have you spoken with, personally?”
“None.”
“Then you are better off remaining silent. I will squeeze your heart, and your blood will pour with the color of your truest, innermost self. Will it be white with purity or black with treachery, red with charity, or purple with malice? Or will it run blue with loyalty?”
Elric’s chin trembled. “I dunno.”
Argyle studied him for a moment, then without warning, he closed his fingers around Elric’s heart and crushed it.
Elric’s stomach lurched.
Gleaming silver rivulets flowed between the avatar’s fingers and dribbled onto the hay, followed by a rusty brown like muddy water. “That’s interesting,” he remarked. “Bravery contaminated with uncertainty.”
Elric felt the barn spinning as his eyes lolled about in his head.
Argyle spoke in soothing tones as he slipped the flaccid heart into a small white bag hanging from his side. “Be at peace, Elric. You are not harmed, but you are being tested. I will keep this for a time as I observe—”
“Keep it!” Elric choked on the words. “I’ll die!”
“You will not die, but you will always feel as if something is missing. Let that sensation guide you. The Maker seeks to prove your worthiness. Ahead lies a town in turmoil. The people have forsaken goodness and twisted their laws. The Maker sends you to intervene. You must right the wrongs there.”
As the avatar spoke these last words, the light in the barn faded away, leaving Elric sitting alone in his bed, soaked through with his sweat. The others all slept soundly as the first rays of a pink-orange sunrise shone through a high window.
With a shaking hand, Elric looked down and felt his chest. There were no wounds, no hole, no scar, and no pain. There were no pools of blood in the hay and no drips of silver blood, brown blood, or any other color on him, his clothes, or anywhere else. He fell back with a relieved sigh, stirring Cuauhtérroc from his slumber.
The savage opened an eye, then sat up with a start. “It is morning.” He glanced about him as if the realization surprised him. “I sleep all dees night. I never do dees.”
Elric’s dream had consumed the entire night. That ain’t fair.
The next two days passed in a blur. As he rode along, Elric mulled over his troubling dream. On occasion, he tried to hear or feel his heart beating, but it was unclear whether he sensed something real or whether he simply wished it to be true. Cripe, I’m missin’ my heartbeat.
He shifted in his saddle, taking stock of his quest. Smite the evil in the next town. It was a paladin’s test, and success returned his heart. Clearly, if the Maker wanted him to do this, then he already possessed all he needed. But it didn’t seem like much—just a short sword, his shield, and Swordin dangling at his left side. No armor and no heartbeat. Can I do this? Well, I have to. I have to pass this test.
The thought of wielding a sword containing the soul of his dead friend disturbed his senses. He had no category for that, no way to process the meaning. He wouldn’t use another person as a shield; how could he wield someone as a sword? Ordin was literally in his hands, and the ominous truth of that was but a touch away.
Ordin spoke to him through contact with the pommel, filling his head with a litany of gripes colored with vibrant acrimony. The barrage of grievances spilling from the sword darkened Elric’s mind, and there was no way to block it outside of never engaging. Ordin also knew whatever was on Elric’s mind, despite all attempts to shield those thoughts. And with such a vivid, portentous dream on his mind—he preferred the mystic didn’t know about that.
“You’re quiet,” Kiyla remarked as she drew her mare aside Elric’s gelding. “What’s eatin’ you?”
“Nuttin’,” Elric lied. “I’m jis thankin’ ‘bout Ordin.” He knew she saw straight through him. Kiyla was the left jab to his right hook; she dodged as he weaved; she aimed high as he swung low; she knew his every parry, block, or attack. She knew him like the knuckles of her deadly fists; there was nothing Elric could hide from her. Under the brawler’s penetrating gaze, Elric’s reticence crumbled. “I’ll tell ya later,” he whispered.
That evening, the Company made camp along the road beneath a thicket of cedars beside a burbling stream. Though chilly, the freshness of the flowing water lifted their spirits and renewed their energy.
As night fell, three coneys and a half-dozen pheasants roasted over the open campfire—the results of Moffe and Cuauhtérroc hunting the thicket. While the firelight danced in their midst, Cora regaled the freeblades with stories of self-made heroes passed down through decades of songsage tradition.
Away from the firelight and warm revelry, Elric ate his evening meal on a fallen tree trunk, his eyes scanning the snowy countryside bathed in iridescent moonlight blue. Footsteps crunched softly in the snow behind him, and he turned with a start.
“Oh, hey Ki.”
“Feel like talkin’?”
“I dunno.”
Kiyla sat on the log beside him anyway and stared out across the pastoral nightscape. “Take your time.”
Several minutes passed before Elric spoke.
“Kiyla?”
“Yeah.”
“Ya remember when I said I’m s’posed to be a paladin?”
“Which time?”
“Quit funnin’. I’m dead serious.”
“Sorry.”
Elric sighed and pulled a strip of bark off the fallen tree. “Ya think I got what it takes?”
Kiyla held out her hands and shrugged. “How would I know? I ain’t no paladin. Never will be. Cuauhtie would make a better paladin than me.”
“But he ain’t tryin’ to be one.” Elric snapped the strip of bark in half and tossed part of it into the night.
“Well, I don’t know.”
“Me neither.”
Kiyla studied him for a time, her brown eyes bouncing back-and-forth across his face. “So, what is it?”
“Ya ever had a dream what’s real as life?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the other night I swear Argyle put all y’all in a deep sleep while he kept me up all night goin’ on ‘bout how my heart ain’t right. An’ ‘en…he jis reached right in my chest an’ pulled it out, sure as I’m sittin’ ‘ere, still beatin’ an’ everthang.”
“Who’s Argyle?”
“He’s the avatar of Light.”
“Oh.”
“I thought I’s dyin’…only I didn’t. Argyle jis stared at my heart while it was beatin’ in his hand. An ‘en he asks me what color my blood is.”
“Red, I hope.”
“That mighta been all right, but he said it could run all kinds o’ colors. An’ he wanted to find out which one, so he squished it.”
Kiyla’s eyes flew open as she recoiled. “What? Your heart?”
“Yeah,” Elric nodded. “An’ ‘en he sticks it in his pocket an’ tells me I’m bein’ tested to see if I’m true to the Light.”
“Cripe, that’s messed up.”
“I know.” Elric threw the other half of the tree bark. “The thang is, I don’ thank it was jis a dream.”
“It wasn’t real, ya know.”
“I weren’t born yesterday, Ki. But I thank it was kinda real, like a visitation.”
The brawler raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“Say…have I got a heartbeat?”
Kiyla tilted her head at him.
“I mean it.” Elric unbuttoned his coat and pulled it open. “Feel of it. I don’t thank I do.”
With a hesitant hand, Kiyla pressed her palm against his chest. Her brow furrowed as she pulled the hand away, then she leaned in and placed an ear against him. “Um…it ain’t there.”
Elric quivered with a gasp born of sudden chill.
Kiyla’s gaze vacillated between awe and fear. “What the rink?” She studied him at arm’s length as if he would turn feral at any moment. Or undead.
“I dunno, Ki. The Maker said I gotta smite the evil in the next town we come across. An’ if I do that, I get my heart back. I didn’t thank it was real.”
Kiyla’s glare deepened into the kind usually followed by a strong uppercut. “Let me tell you somethin’. I spent my life hatin’ the Maker. My whole life is one rink fest. When you died, I cursed him. Out loud. Didn’t even care. I also prayed—first time for everything. I know it makes no sense, but that’s what I did. I said if you came back, I’d start believin’. And you did. So, I’m tryin’. But if the Maker’s gonna rip your heart out…well…” She stood and exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “That ain’t right.”
“The Maker’s ways are higher than—”
“Don’t give me that!” Kiyla wheeled on him, hissing her retort. “How does that make it right? Look at me. Ain’t nobody gonna call me pretty. Ever. I got scars on top of scars. A crooked nose. This ear.” She jabbed a finger at her left ear, knobby and swollen from countless well-placed fists. “And I’ve lost everyone I ever loved. I’m broke on the inside just as bad as the outside.”
“I’m sorry, Ki. I didn’t know this would bother ya.”
“Forget it. It’s my problem, not yours. You trust the Maker, even if he rips out your heart and beats you with it. I’m strugglin’. I said I’d trust him if he brought you back to me. I guess I need to do that.” Kiyla looked into the sky and sighed. “I need to turn in.”
Elric watched her leave, then his eyes returned to the spot where she had stood. What the cripe? His mind buzzed with a flurry of confused thoughts. He had no heartbeat. Kiyla suffered on the inside. He had a town to save. He’d seen Argyle in a vision. Kiyla cursed the Maker…
But one stark echo pounded the inside of his skull over and over again. “The Maker brought ya back to me.” Is it “brought ya back” or is it “to me”? Weighing the possibilities in his mind, Elric wandered back into the camp where Cuauhtérroc kept watch by the fire. Does she like me?
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