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Cortland Finiron, Hammer Master of the 12th Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, trudging toward understanding
Orryn es-Salvado, Beastlord of the 3rd Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, a follower
Henry Blacksalve, Traveon Twiceblack, Watts Stonework, and Rivian Stonespirit, the champions of Soldier’s Rest
Theo Adamantios, Axe Master of the 6th Renown, and Sylvie Aracia, his sponsor, Penchenne, who have a burden to share with the hammer master
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1 Meltzend, 61 AW
The village of Tiptop, North Continent
119 days until the next Granting
On the embankment above the docks, the champions broke apart some snow to get at the frozen dirt beneath. Then, Henry bent down and coaxed upward with his fingers, using [Summon Garden] to raise stalks of a dark green plant with brittle black leaves.
“Quickly, now,” Henry said. “It doesn't do well in the cold.”
The three other champions of Soldier's Rest did as they were told, plucking leaves off the plant's shuddering branches and chewing them. Watts Stonework passed around a flask of mulled cider to wash down the bitterness.
“What is this?” Orryn es-Salvado asked, rubbing his leaf between thumb and forefinger. He sniffed his fingers and winced.
“Kafette,” Henry answered. “Typically, it only grows in the southeast. A little something to help us all stay awake through the night.”
Orryn glanced at Cortland, waiting for the hammer master's curt nod before popping the leaf in his mouth. He gagged at the taste. Henry quickly plucked the rest of the leaves, wrapped them in a handkerchief, and stashed them inside his sweater, right up against his skin. He saved one leaf for Cortland, who accepted it with a grunt.
“Gets quiet up here quick, don't it?” Cortland said.
“Being late might not be the worst thing, if we can keep a good pace,” Henry replied. “Make our move when the clouds clear.”
“Shit rolls downhill,” Cortland said.
The well-lit streets of Tiptop with their immaculate cobbles and wrought iron oil lamps were deserted. They had missed the merchant bazaar that followed the champions north. The gods had revealed the usual deposit of Ink on the mountain that morning and the timely champions had obediently set out. By the afternoon, the merchants and other assorted hangers-on had gone, too, albeit in the opposite direction. Only remnants of their passing—shattered clay jars, a wagon stripped of wheels, dark coals from a grill—littered the curbs. Luckily, the champions of the pyramidal city had come well-prepared, each lugging a pack of camping supplies and rations. Of course, on account of his [Strength+], Cortland's pack was stuffed heavier than the others. He carried shares for Vitt and Carina, on the assumption they might show up here.
Cortland packed the kafette leaf between his cheek and chin. The taste was stingingly bitter, like coffee grounds and sour cherries, and Cortland had a strange affinity for it. He felt the blood rush to his muscles almost immediately.
“Come on, then,” he said. “Let's get on with it.”
Under a pale moon, Tiptop's single street was eerily quiet. The wind whistled between the log buildings and, below the embankment, the river sloshed loose ice against the banks. The six of them trudging up the road seemed incredibly loud, so Cortland was unsurprised when Watts spoke to him in a near whisper.
“What did Henry mean before?” the former bouncer asked. “About being late.”
Cortland lifted his chin toward the looming mountain. There were a couple campfires visible a few miles up. “It’s an arduous enough trek to begin with, but the gods have been known to thaw out some surprises on the way.”
“Huh.” Watts nodded. “So, hang back and let others face them first.”
“Might go that way, might not,” Cortland said. “Sometimes, you get an asshole up there, don’t like trailers.”
“The other champions, you mean?”
Cortland nodded. “Traps. Obstacles. No one wants to get passed.”
Up ahead, torchlight spilled into the street from the Clear Sky Tavern. It was the only building in Tiptop with any lights.
“Stop for a drink?” Traveon asked. “One last meal cooked by professionals before we spend a month on the mountain?”
“No,” Cortland said.
“Let him go,” murmured Orryn. “More for us.”
Rivian Stonespirit had been walking level with Cortland, her long legs easily matching the determined pace set by his shorter ones. As they continued past the tavern, she tapped the back of her hand against his arm. “Eyes up,” she said.
Cortland glanced to the tavern's entrance where a broad-faced balding man stepped out to meet them. Rivian shifted her hands beneath the fur she wore, crossing her hands so they rested on the hilts of her sashblades.
“Not necessary,” Cortland told Rivian, slowing his stride.
Cortland recognized the man from last year’s Granting, though it took a moment to recall his name. Theo Adamantios. He belonged to Penchenne who—given their frequent efforts to leach Infinzel's power on the north continent—were one of the factions Cortland made a point of keeping tabs on. He recalled finding this Theo annoyingly affable. And yet, he'd killed a man from Cruxton last year. In Cortland's opinion, the ones who treated the Granting like a job were much more dangerous than the zealous types or the glory chasers. Theo fit that profile, which made it strange to find him down here, lingering, when he should’ve been up the mountain.
“Cortland Finiron?” Theo asked.
The hammer master stopped, raising an eyebrow. “What?”
“Sir, my name—”
“Theo, Penchenne, axes,” Cortland said. “What?”
The man blinked, surprised Cortland would know him, and bowed stiffly. “Sir, my sponsor would like a word with you.”
Cortland made a point of looking around, but Theo was alone. “Then your sponsor should get their boots on and start walking.”
Cortland resumed his path toward the mountain, the rest of the champions falling in around him. Theo had better sense than to stand in the way, so he hustled along the road in an awkward sideways scuttle.
“I'm eager to begin the ascent myself, sir, but this is a most urgent matter,” Theo said. “Madam Sylvie Aracia is in no condition to attempt the hike or we would not delay you further.”
Cortland cocked his head. That name meant something to him. She was a niece of the Exile Queen Deidre. Issa Firstdot-Tuarez had brought Cortland a bundle of letters that this Sylvie had written to–
“Ben Tuarez,” said Theo. “It concerns the fate of your friend Ben Tuarez.”
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Cortland stopped walking, and so did the others. Henry spoke up before Cortland could.
“I'm warning you, friend,” the healer said, with a meaningful glance in Cortland's direction. “If this is meant as some delaying tactic, I would reconsider using that name, or pushing on any further.”
“What he means is that I’ve got a long fucking memory and a big fucking hammer, you Penchennese pig,” Cortland added.
“I take your meaning and intend no disrespect, sir,” Theo said, holding up his hands. “Madam Aracia awaits you inside.”
Cortland exchanged a look with Henry. “Fine,” he said.
When the two of them started forward, Theo cleared his throat uncomfortably.
“Apologies, but, she will speak only to you, Master Finiron. Our instructions are clear in that matter.”
Cortland scowled. “What instructions?”
Theo glanced over the other champions and squinted. “Why—why are there so many of you, actually?” He bent to take a closer look at Traveon. “What symbol is that?”
With a dramatic flourish, Traveon tossed his scarf across his throat, concealing the broken wall. “You are being very rude to the hammer master, bald one.”
Theo sighed, turning his attention back to Cortland. “I was told, in the event of your obstinacy, to quote the following: I love an uncurious man. So much pleasure—”
Cortland silenced him with a hiss. Of course, he recognized the words. He’d turned them over in his mind a thousand times since the Granting.
I love an uncurious man, the assassin had said. So much pleasure to be had in setting their wheels to spinning.
Well, his wheels spun now.
Cortland turned to Henry. “Take them up. I’ll follow soon.”
“Are you sure?” Henry asked. He read Cortland’s expression easily enough. “All right.”
Orryn edged closer to Cortland. “You mean to leave me alone with them?”
Cortland clapped his hand on Orryn’s shoulder, pressing his thumb against his throat. “Boy, you are safer with them than you ever are with me.”
With that, Cortland followed Theo back to the Clear Sky. Smartly, the Penchennese champion said nothing further on the way.
The warmth of the tavern was a relief, although Cortland was too distracted to appreciate it. The place was deserted except for the innkeeper, Val, a retired champion of Fornon, who exchanged a curt nod with Cortland before she returned to polishing glasses. Theo led Cortland between tables and chairs, heading for a private room in the tavern’s rear. Cortland made note of one table cluttered with gear not so different than his own—likely what Theo planned to carry up the mountain.
“She’s back here,” Theo said. “Do you want—could I bring you something to drink?”
Cortland grunted. “No.”
Behind them, the tavern’s front door clicked open and closed. Cortland glanced over his shoulder and saw Traveon Twiceblack, alone, making for the bar. Again and again, the young man proved himself a nuisance. A reprimand would have to wait. Fingers drumming the head of his hammer, Cortland followed Theo into the back room.
The Clear Sky kept these separate areas for champions who wished to broker deals in private. Cortland had never made use of one before. Two high-backed chairs were arranged before a wood-burning stove, a table covered in faded wine-colored rings set up between them.
Sylvie Aracia jumped when Cortland entered the room and again when he dropped his pack onto the floor with a thud. The girl huddled beneath a mound of blankets, her hands poking out to cup a mug of tea. She looked to be in her twenties, her features all sharp angles, with a boy’s haircut. At the sight of him, she suppressed a shudder.
“I shall let the two of you speak alone?” Theo phrased the statement as a question.
Sylvie nodded. “Yes. Thank you, Theo.”
With one last look for his sponsor, Theo closed the door behind him.
“You’re shorter even than they say you are,” Sylvie said quietly.
“What is this?” Cortland snapped. “Why am I here?”
Sylvie met his eyes. Cortland had expected timidity, but there was a resolved set about the girl’s face, like she’d long ago decided to jump and now saw the ground rushing up to meet her.
“Do you want to sit?” she asked.
“No.”
“Fine, hear it standing,” she said. “I had Ben Tuarez killed.”
“You,” Cortland said.
“Me,” she replied. “And I will tell you why.”
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The girl hadn't wanted to become a sponsor, but her father insisted. She had come to her aunt's attention, which was an honor onto itself. The exile queen herself had made the arrangements, when so many of the Penchennese nobility angled to fill the opening. Taking on a champion would be the final step in the girl’s education. Afterward, she would be worldly enough to occupy a place in the senate, possibly a seat right next to her father. She could shape the future of the city and, perhaps, the world.
And so, given her choice of potential champions, the girl had chosen the swordsman. He had been the son of two bakers, but had been recruited to the military college after some promising test results. It was said that no duelist in his cohort had ever so much as nicked him, that the sporting mentors had paired him with men twice his age just to give him a challenge. The girl did not know these facts when she chose him.
“If I am going to see through someone else's eyes,” she told him, later, “I want them to be beautiful eyes.”
For a year, the girl and the swordsman traveled the continent together in search of Ink. They wore their bracelets always, so they could get used to the feeling of being connected. The swordsman said he liked the way her voice vibrated inside his mind. In a field of tall grass, she felt the heat of her own skin through his palms and looked out through his eyes as he slid inside her.
“Four years and I will no longer be a swordsman or a baker's son,” he told her. “For my service, the senate will give me a reward of my choosing.”
“And what will you choose?” she asked him.
“You, of course,” he said. “If you will allow it.”
“I will.”
His first Granting lasted two days.
When the girl saw the old man with the spear and the shield, she told the swordsman to retreat. The girl recognized this man of the pyramid had more Ink than her swordsman. But the two champions had both been separated from their fellows and, in this moment of isolation, the swordsman saw an opportunity to strike a blow for Penchenne. He had never lost a duel. And so, he ignored the girl's instructions and engaged.
His sword melted upon the shield, liquid metal spattering his cheeks. The man's one spear became many—and even with the swordsman's gifts, he could not dodge every thrust. In fact, the swordsman’s feet were sucked down into quicksand, a trap created by his opponent.
The shield master took his time. He carved the muscles out from backs of the swordsman's legs and crunched his shield into the swordsman's hips, but he did not kill him. Instead, he dragged the swordsman's limp body to a tree and propped him up there, then found the bracelet on the swordsman's wrist, the one that connected him to the girl. He pressed the enchanted stones to his lips and spoke into them.
“Beg me.”
The girl did beg, although the shield master couldn't hear her. The swordsman begged, too, as the shield master made a churn of his guts, spearing down into him again and again, pulling forth looping tubes of gore and holding these up before the swordsman's eyes so that the girl back in Penchenne could see. The shield master had a coldness to him, like the process disgusted him, as if the swordsman's body was to blame for the ease with which he picked it apart.
“Tell Deidre, this is what happens,” the shield master said. “This is what happens when you dare.”
It took a long time for the swordsman to die. The shield master made sure he kept his eyes open, so the girl could watch. And she did, never taking the bracelet off, until at last the swordsman's eyes stopped seeing and the stones went cold against the girl's skin. Only then did she rip off the bracelet with a scream and take up her dagger. The girl cut into her wrist–
The visitor burst into her room and wrestled the knife away.
At first, the girl tried to attack the visitor, because she wore the same mark as the shield master who had killed the swordsman. The visitor had lived amongst them for years now, a favored pet of her aunt, an outsider, but always a friend to the girl. Her best friend, in fact, until the girl had met the swordsman.
The visitor endured the thrashing and the wailing and held onto the girl, squeezing her close, until they sagged against each other and fell together onto the floor, like they had themselves just survived a battle on the island. The girl's wrist still bled, but the cut wasn't deep. Some of the blood had smeared onto the visitor, though, and she held up her bloodied hand to show the girl.
“Do you want revenge?” the visitor asked. “I can show you how.”
“I want to die,” the girl said.
“Stop it,” the visitor said. “No, you don't. Come on. You need to report what's happened to your aunt.”
“Wait…” The girl covered the cut on her wrist with her thumb. “What did you mean before? About revenge?”
“Never mind that,” the visitor said. “I spoke hastily. You've lost too much already.”
But the girl insisted.
And so, the visitor fetched a needle and a coin. The visitor told the girl to write the shield master's name in her blood. Then, under cover of night, the visitor led the girl to a part of the city where the girl had never been—it wasn't an area meant for the nobility. There lived the drunks and the impoverished and the black market villains. And, hidden amongst their hovels, in an alley that smelled like piss, the visitor showed the girl a well of sparkling blue water.
“You just have to throw it in,” the visitor said. “They will do the rest.”
The girl hesitated only for a moment.
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“Four years it took them,” Sylvie said. “I’d started to think they wouldn’t take the trade. But they did, and I’m glad for it. I was scared of what they might make me do as payment. I thought I might have to hurt someone innocent. You’re not innocent, though, are you? I don’t feel scared, now. The assassin was right. I feel lighter.”
At some point, Cortland had decided to sit down. His knuckles burned from squeezing his fists.
“He wasn’t that way,” Cortland said. “Like you described him.”
“You’re all that way.”
“He was an honorable man.”
“You knew him that way,” Sylvie said. “I knew him another. Maybe I knew him better.”
“I loved him,” Cortland said.
“So what?” Sylvie replied.
The room felt very hot. The space seemed smaller than when Cortland entered. He felt sweat trickle down the side of his face—at least, he hoped it was sweat.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” Cortland asked. “Why tell me?”
“I don’t know,” Sylvie replied. “It’s what the assassin wanted and now it’s done. My part in this is done.”
Cortland took a long breath in through his nose. He stood up, his knees shaking slightly, and stood over the Aracia girl. Eyeing him, she huddled a little deeper into the blankets.
“I’ll decide if you’re done,” Cortland said. “Maybe I’ll write your name on a coin.”
“I think the assassin would like that,” Sylvie said. “She’d want you in her debt.”
“She won’t be around to collect.”
“Another will be,” Sylvie said, chuckling. “And on it will go. And on, and on, and on…”
She was still repeating herself when Cortland left the room.
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