Chapter Fourteen - The Promise

(Part I)

Cal woke with daylight in his eyes.

He blinked, screwing them shut, and groaned. Pain washed over him in a fiery wave. Every kind of it he knew. Aching, stinging, burning, tearing. Pain. He took a long, shuddering breath, gritting his teeth, and the memories of the night before came back to him in a jumbled haze. The cave, burned to ashes. The Old Man, gone. Running, falling, world spinning. Shadows in the trees. The Nest, hot with firelight, blood on his arms. Carel. Petr. Then...

He blinked, trying to open his eyes. He had made it home, at least. He was lying sprawled beside the hearth, wrapped in an old fur. He must have slept there. He shifted his weight on the hard floor, and gasped, another stripe of pain gouging across his battered back. The fire was dead. The nightwood chest in the corner gleamed with a dull polish, watching. The light of the day was spilling through the open doorway, and the breath of winter was on the air. All was quiet. Why was the door open? Cal struggled to sit up, shading his eyes. But he was alone. His head ached as a wave of nausea washed over him, and he retched emptily onto the flagstone floor, gasping, but there was nothing to throw up.

He sat there for a while, gritting his teeth, groaning soft breaths through battered lips. He was aching in places he didn’t even know he had. His jaw and cheek felt like they had been stuffed to bursting with gravel. His left eye refused to open more than a finger’s width. His skin from arms to calves dissolved into fiery agony with every movement. There was a pail of water beside the fire, and he crawled over to it, scooping a handful onto his face. He gasped as a patchwork of stinging agony opened across his skin, and his hand came away spotted with blood. He wiped it away, drop by painful drop, grimacing. Then he let the fur fall from his shoulders, and his knees went a little weak at the sight of his arms, so crisscrossed with jagged red cuts it resembled a flayed deer hide. His shirt was a mess of tangled thread, sloughing off his shoulders in bloody strips. Several of the cuts had reopened as he slept, and the discarded fur was spotted with blood. They were clean, at least. He thought of Carel, her pail of bloody water, and pressed his eyes shut, half-choking on the remembering. What was he going to tell the Blacksmith? What could he?

The dead fire whispered, and he opened his eyes. The embers were stirring, ebbing and swelling softly in the pale light of the doorway. Past the hearth, the old nightwood chest gleamed, unmoving, heavy as the hills. Cal stared at it, and it stared back, unblinking. He looked at the open door again, but nothing was stirring beyond. Nothing but the wind. Why not? Everything was changed, these past few days. Even here. Why shouldn’t he look?

He groaned as he got to his feet, lurching against a wall for support, and stood for a moment, breathing hard. The chest watched him, indifferent, and the fire whispered. Cal gritted his death, then made his way slowly over to the strange dark box on unsteady feet. It didn’t stir as he dropped to the floor beside it. Cal stared at it, blinking. It was a strange shape, long and low to the floor, but the nightwood had a solid darkness to it that made looking seem more like feeling than seeing. The mechanism on its lid flashed muddy silver, thick as a hammerhead. How many times had he sat here, when he was a boy, beside the dying fire? Not once had he seen it open. He reached out a hand, touching the dark grey lock, and a little spark jumped into his fingers, making him start.

‘Boy.’

He snatched back his hand. The Blacksmith was standing in the doorway, heavy shoulders framed by the paleness of morning, watching him. Even in shadow, the scar on his cheek flashed like silver, curling through his beard. Cal opened his lips, but his tongue was thick with tar, and whatever words he had intended stuck to the roof of his mouth.

‘Come.’ the Blacksmith said simply, turning and disappearing again through the door. Cal hesitated for a moment, looking back at the chest, then staggered quickly to his feet, every inch of his flesh crawling with the effort. He stood there for a moment, breath hissing through aching teeth. Then he limped through the open doorway after the Blacksmith, setting his battered jaw.

The air outside was the cut-cold air of winter, and it rushed over his skin in a freezing whisper, tousling the shredded tendrils of his shirt and chilling him to the bone. His breath steamed through his gritted teeth, tumbling in the frigid air. The sky was clear and blue, and frost clung to the pines around the forge like silver lace. The Teeth loomed sharp and black overhead, capped with shadow, just like always. Of the previous night's storm, there was no sign, save the glittering puddles that dotted the open ground, frozen solid in the pale light of the morning. The Blacksmith was standing a few paces away with his broad back turned, half-filling the clearing with his shadow, bald head gleaming.

‘I have been to the inn.’

Cal opened his mouth, then closed it again, staring at the dirt. He’d almost forgotten the forged note from the Innkeep, with everything else that had happened since.

‘Where were you, boy?’

Cal forced himself not to shiver. ‘I can ex-’

‘Where were you?’ the Blacksmith demanded again. He turned as he spoke, and his coal-black eyes bore into Cal’s with the weight of the mountainside.

‘I... in the hills.’ Cal admitted.

‘I forbade it.’ The Blacksmith’s voice had an edge to it sharper than steel.

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‘Yes.’

Silence.

‘What did you find?’

‘The cave.’ Cal began, tasting smoke on his tongue. ‘Burned to ash. All of it.’

‘What about... him?’

‘Dead.’

The Blacksmith’s black eyes flashed.

‘You are sure?’

Cal felt a flash of anger. Had he not seen it?

‘I am sure.’ He hesitated, swallowing hard. ‘I… I buried what was left.’

The Blacksmith nodded, and his scar flashed beneath his beard.

‘You fled.’

‘The... It was still smoking. I thought they might be back.’

‘Who is they?’

‘I don’t know.’

The Blacksmith paused for a long moment, but his eyes did not relent.

‘You fell.’

Cal’s eyes flicked down towards his arms, wincing in spite of himself.

‘Yes. I thought I saw...’

‘Saw what?’

Black eyes watching.

‘I... I don’t know. Something moving. In the trees.’ He paused, taking a half-choked breath. ‘It was dark. The storm...’

‘And you fell.’

‘Yes.’

Another pause. Cal squirmed under the Blacksmith’s dark eyes. The pines watched from around the clearing, whispering to each other in the breeze. Cal found himself hoping that the Blacksmith would not ask him more about his descent out of the hills. He didn’t know what he would say. He didn’t know what he had seen. He thought of the shadows in the trees, but it was like remembering a dream, blurring with water. He’d seen the dirt. One set of footprints. One. His. He blinked, swallowing, but the Blacksmith had moved on.

‘You went to the inn.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Cal frowned. ‘The storm... I was cold. Hurt.’

‘You were afraid.’

‘Yes. In the trees...’ Cal hesitated, trying to remember. Shadows chasing him through the pines. Shadows without footprints. He frowned, shaking his head. ‘My mind was playing tricks.’

The Blacksmith stared at him for a moment, and Cal’s jaw ached.

‘What happened at the inn, boy?’

‘It was Petr. He...’

‘You fought him?’

‘I slipped, he was-’

‘Enough.’

‘But he was hurting h-’

‘Enough!’ the Blacksmith thundered, taking a step forward. He seemed suddenly very tall, and his shadow filled the clearing, pressing Cal back against the door of the forge. ‘What would have happened, had you beaten him? Had you not been injured? What would they say of the scrawny stray who knocked down the boy twice his size?’

Cal blinked up at him silently. The Blacksmith took a breath.

‘What is our word?’ he demanded, black eyes welded to Cal’s like hot steel. Cal glared back at him, and did not answer.

‘What is our word?’ the Blacksmith asked again, slower this time, each word stretched out like an old bowstring.

Cal sighed.

‘Secret.’ he said quietly.

‘A secret for keeping.’ the Blacksmith agreed, nodding once. ‘That was our deal. Our pact. Do you remember?’

Cal frowned. ‘I remember.’

‘You are better. That is your burden. It is not bravery to kick a barking dog. That is not why I teach you.’

The Blacksmith’s voice hung on the freezing air, and his black eyes cut Cal to the bone. Cal looked down. Something hot was building in his chest. Something angry. For the Old Man. For the Blacksmith. For the inn he had left behind, for the Innkeep, for Lokk and Carel, familiar eyes watching him like strangers. For his shame. He clenched his jaw, ignoring the pain that shot up his cheek.

‘And what of him?’ he demanded.

‘What of him?’ the Blacksmith replied calmly, looking back at him.

‘I told you what the Innkeep said. Strangers at the inn. Asking questions. About the Greycloak in the hills.’ Cal told him. ‘You wouldn’t let me go. You wouldn’t let me warn him!’

‘Warn him of what?’ the Blacksmith demanded, his face thunder. ‘Stray sparks from his fire?’

Cal felt his blood rush to his cheeks. ‘You don’t care!’

‘I care plenty, boy. There’s no shame in knowing what a man cannot change.’

‘You coward!’ Cal shouted, bunching his fists. They were very close, now, and Cal could feel the weight of the Blacksmith’s stare pressing against the space between them. But his anger was fresh, and it was strong with the burden of his waiting. The heat of it filled him, surging through his blood, swelling against his aching skull. He was done with hiding. ‘Strike first. Strike . That’s what you said. But you sit here all day like a coward, afraid of the world. Doing what? Teaching me? For what? To rot here, like you?’

‘Careful boy.’ the Blacksmith’s eyes flashed dangerously, but Cal was too far gone now. Heat filled his cheeks, and his tongue raced with fire, pain forgotten.

‘It’s your fault he’s dead!

‘Enough!’

The Blacksmith word was a thunderclap. Cal froze. The shadow of his shoulders reared up like storm clouds, forcing him back into the doorway.

‘After all I have given you, this is how you repay me?’ he demanded, eyes carving into Cal’s skull. The Blacksmith’s voice cut at him like a whip, and the wide shoulders loomed over him, pushing him another step back. ‘I give you everything. Everything! Still you won’t listen. Still you won’t let me keep you safe!’

The Blacksmith took another step, and Cal stumbled over the doorstep, spilling onto his backside. Pain shot up his spine, and he gasped, blinking through tears. The Blacksmith was gone, and only the shadow remained, filling his eyes, thundering down on him like a landslide. He flinched back, trying to look away, but the coal-black eyes locked with his, hot with fury. They loomed over him, seething like a thundercloud, and the shadow’s scarred face burned like lightning.

‘You are careless! Foolish! I gave you the gift of choice, and this is what you do with it? You think all are so lucky?’

Cal tried to close his eyes, but he was frozen in place. Agony stabbed through his temples, filling his mouth with bile. He blinked up at the giant cloud looming over him, transfixed, unable to move.

Then the shadow was gone, and the Blacksmith stood in its place once more. Suddenly very old, tired, withered like an old stump, black eyes scored with dark rings, skin drawn across cheekbones sharp as glass. When had the grey hair appeared in his beard? The scar on his cheek seemed dull and grey, not silver. He was hunched, back curled around some nameless, unspeakable pain. Something knotted under his shirt, twisting. As Cal watched, he took a long, shuddering breath, backing away with a look of confusion on his weary face, shoulders round as millstones, head sagged over his chest. Cal lay there in the open doorway, breathing hard, heart pounding in his ears. His body ached. Burned. Stung. A dozen knives dragged empty lines of pain across his back, his shoulders, his arms, his face. But he did not move. Silence filled his ears. The stained white stillness of the clearing was heavy with it. Even the trees had stopped whispering.

‘I...’ the Blacksmith murmured. His voice seemed far away. Quiet in the way of distant wind. But it was done, and they both knew it. The silence endured a moment longer. Then Cal got slowly to his feet and disappeared inside the door. When he emerged, there was a cloak around his shoulders, a fresh shirt against his shredded arms. The Blacksmith was standing where he had been, surrounded by a little patchwork of frozen rain, shrunken in around himself like an old root, dark eyes on the ground. Cal spared him a glance, acid tears on his battered cheeks. But their word was broken, and there was nothing left to be said.

So he turned and went away into the trees, and if the Blacksmith called out to him, he did not hear him.