image [https://i.imgur.com/EEocV8K.png]

Two days later, Durrin rode through the streets of Caradell—or more specifically, the street of Caradell. There was a smithy, a mill, a cooper, and a carpentry shop. That was it. There wasn’t even a tavern. Everything else in the area was farms.

Durrin made some inquiries for Halorn. At first, the villagers only looked at him, a hooded city-dweller, with suspicion. He had expected as much, but it was still mildly frustrating. Finally, after Durrin flashed a few coins, the blacksmith pointed him in the direction of Halorn’s farm.

Durrin followed the man’s directions, leaving the village and riding up a narrow trail into the hills. Raggedy Ruby pushed through fields of tall, ripe hay, which coated the edges of Durrin’s cloak with seed husks. The late afternoon Sun drifted from cloud to cloud, casting long swaths of alternating light and shadow across the rolling hills.

This is ridiculous, a voice said in his mind. Durrin had spent the last seven years in a dungeon. Would Halorn even recognize him? And if he did, why would Halorn even want to talk to him? For some reason, Halorn had renounced pyromancy and turned to a life of farming. He had chosen a new life—a life where Durrin had no place. It had been foolish to come here.

Durrin reined his horse to a stop, about to turn back.

“Durrin!”

Farther up the path, a figure was bounding toward him, kicking up dust and straw. A figure he knew.

“Halorn!”

His old friend had not changed. He still had that same subtle lope to his step, and as he got closer, Durrin could make out the same twist to his grin.

image [https://i.imgur.com/wZqHs6J.png]

Durrin dismounted and held out a hand, but Halorn nearly tackled him in an embrace. With that embrace, something within Durrin, something he had held tight for seven long years, broke. And he wept. Tears poured down his face as he shook in his friend’s arms.

For a moment, Durrin tried to pull away, ashamed of his tears. But Halorn only hugged him tighter. That was when Durrin realized why he cried. For the first time since his release, someone acted truly relieved to see him. For the first time, someone made him feel like he truly had been freed.

Durrin hugged Halorn back, letting seven years of bottled loneliness pour out of him.

After a long moment, Halorn pulled away and held Durrin’s shoulders at arm’s length, grinning at him. “Welcome home, Durrin.”

Durrin wiped his cheek with the edge of his cloak—an action completely foreign to him. He hadn’t wept like this since . . . he had no clue when.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Halorn said, grabbing the reins of Durrin’s horse. “We have supper ready for you.”

Durrin followed him, bewildered. “You were expecting me?”

Halorn nodded. “I dreamed last night that you would come.”

* * * * *

In the next half-hour, Durrin realized he had been mistaken. Halorn had changed.

He no longer wore the sable and scarlet robes of the Academy, but the simple tunic and trousers of a farmer. His arms were sinewy instead of lithe, his hands calloused from years of heavy labor.

As they crested the rise, they came upon a cluster of small stone buildings. Smoke rose from a chimney, and herds of sheep and goats gazed sleepily at them as they approached.

“Well-maintained,” Durrin noted.

Halorn nodded, his face beaming. “Well-staffed, too. Beyond the hill lives a pack of swifters; they herd the sheep and goats, almost six hundred head. A family of avirs lives in that one-story cottage, and underneath the barn lives a full burrow of snippens to help with odd jobs. I live in the two-story structure.”

“Who owns the land?” Durrin said. “A nobleman from Elain?”

Halorn shook his head. “I do. Outright.”

Durrin stopped, pleasantly surprised. “You mean you own this whole farm?”

Halorn nodded.

“How much is it worth?”

Halorn looked toward the main house. “Not as much as these little darlings.”

A door slammed. Two young girls were running toward them, their apron strings flying in the wind. “Papa! Papa!”

Halorn caught them both in his arms, swinging them through the air and laughing. “On the lookout, are we? How’s—hey! No tickles!”

He went down in the tall grass, his daughters on top of him, all three laughing hysterically.

Halorn had a family? Durrin took a closer look at his friend. On Halorn’s left hand glistened a white wedding ring, forged from eternium. How had Durrin not noticed that before?

image [https://i.imgur.com/w2ohVmx.png]

Something tugged at Durrin’s cloak. He spun, ready to disarm the wood-be pickpocket. But no, it was only a little boy, no older than three. He stared up at Durrin with big blue eyes. “Why ’ello!” he said, giving Durrin the happiest grin he had ever seen.

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“Um, hello,” Durrin said, feeling thoroughly out of his wheelhouse. He hadn’t been surrounded by small children since . . . well . . . since he was a small child.

“Who you?” the boy chirped.

“. . . I’m Durrin.”

“You’re doing what?”

“No. Durrin.”

The boy’s smile got even bigger. “Ahhh! . . . You’re doing ‘dat during what?”

“No. My name is Durrin.”

The boy’s eyes became as big as saucers. “Ohh! . . . My name is Queasle!”

Queasle? What kind of a name was that?

“Sorry,” Halorn said, dragging himself over to Durrin, a girl latched onto each leg. “Let me introduce you. Children, this is Durrin. He’s an old friend of mine. We knew each other before you were even born!”

“Dad, when was I born?” one of the girls said.

“I was born before you!” the other said.

“No! We were born at the same time!”

“No, I was born first. By five minutes. Mama said so!”

Halorn smiled. “These are the twins, Janea and Anjea. They’re both four. And the boy’s Quin, but his sisters called him Queasle once, and now we can’t get the name out of his head. Let’s tie up your horse and head inside. Girls, let go of my legs, please.”

Inside the main house, a tall woman was taking flatbread out of a small brick kiln. She looked up as they entered and greeted Durrin with a smile and a bow.

“This is my wife, Elianna,” Halorn said. “Elianna, this is Durrin Rendhart.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Master Durrin,” Elianna said, laying the bread out on the table, joining a bowl of figs and a jar of olive oil.

“You have much to tell!” Halorn said as he began to slice a wedge of cheese. “I’ve thought for seven years that you were dead!”

Someone tugged at Durrin’s cloak again. It was Queasle. “Are you the fire mage?” he asked, wonder in his face.

“Uh. . .” Durrin blinked. He’d never been called a fire mage before, but that was what pyromancy was. “Yes?”

“You’re in Daddy’s bedtime stories!” Janea chirped. Or maybe it was Anjea.

Durrin’s head was spinning. Too many people were talking at once. He turned back to Elianna. “Don’t call me ‘master,’” he said. “I never became a guild master.”

“But you deserve to be one!” said Halorn. “And that’s what matters.”

“You’re a guild master in Daddy’s stories,” Anjea said. “You’re Master Rendhart, the Hero Who Never Laughs.”

Durrin lifted his eyebrows at Halorn. “Never laughs?”

“Well, it’s true.”

After Halorn got everyone to sit down at the table—a mighty feat in and of itself—he looked at one of his daughters. “Anjea? Could you do the honors?”

The little girl scrunched up her eyes, rapidly touching her heart and then her head before reciting at a breathless pace, “Father of Stars, who gave what is ours, thanks do we give, by thee do we live. Done!”

“You can’t say it that fast!” Janea chided.

“Your sister’s right,” Halorn said. He looked sheepishly at Durrin. “We try.”

Durrin awkwardly waited until the others started grabbing food before reaching for the bowl of figs. It had been many, many years since he had heard a prayer of thanksgiving before a meal, and he didn’t want to misstep by starting too early.

Durrin had been riding most of the day with only a scant lunch. He dug into the food, devouring half a loaf of bread and a bowl of figs in short order. Food had not tasted so good in a long time. As he ate, Anjea and Janea bombarded him with half a hundred questions.

“Are you really seven feet tall?”

“Well, I—”

“Did you once burn up an entire forest with a single sneeze?”

“That’s impossible, for starters, and—”

“I found a grasshopper today in the grass. Do you want to see it?”

“Um—”

“Master Rendhart! Master Rendhart!”

“Yes?”

“. . . I forgot. Oh! I remember! Do you like my hair bow?”

“Well, I guess it’s quite—"

“Master Rendhart! Is it true that you and Daddy once welded shut the hinges to the schoolmaster’s office?”

Durrin shot Halorn a glare. “You told them about that? We made a vow of secrecy!”

Halorn shrugged. “I ran out of ideas! You try telling a bedtime story on the spot. Every single night.”

While Durrin started in on a second helping—he felt like he’d never be full—Halorn rose and began cleaning up while his wife climbed a ladder to care for a newborn who had started wailing upstairs. Then one of the twins asked a question that made Durrin pause.

“Master Rendhart! Can you do some pyrop—pyrum—can you do some fire magic for us?”

The room became expectant. Durrin looked to Halorn, the words from the Academy log fresh in his mind: renounced pyromancy. “That depends. What does your father say?”

Anjea, Janea, and Queasle all turned to look at their dad. “Papa! Pleeease?”

Halorn kept his focus on the dishes he was scrubbing. “Master Durrin is a pyromancer. Of course he can do a display for you.” His tone was even—he wasn’t shutting down the idea, but he didn’t seem excited.

Three little heads turned back around. “Do it! Do it!”

Durrin, still watching his old friend out of the corner of his eye, spun his hand in a circle and brought a flame to life in his fingers. He tossed the flame back and forth between his hands, garnering “oohs” and “aahs” from his young audience. Each toss sent the flame higher and higher, until with a final twirl of his fingers, he sent the flame spiraling upward until it winked out near the ceiling.

The children were silent for a moment. Halorn watched the display with an unreadable expression.

Then Anjea and Janea said simultaneously, “That was boring.”

“Boring?” Durrin said. That was a third-year trick!

“I thought you would make a tiger out of flame,” said Anjea.

“Or set your hair on fire,” said Janea.

“Or create a new star in the sky,” said Anjea.

“Or turn yourself invisible,” said Janea.

“More cheese!” said Queasle, banging his empty plate on the table.

Durrin held up his hands. “Sorry, I can’t do much indoors. I might catch something on fire.”

To his surprise, Halorn spoke up, a new energy in his voice. Perhaps Durrin’s display was reigniting fond memories. “Then we’ll go outside! Perhaps Durrin can favor us with a repeat of his Kymer championship performance from eleven years ago.”

The girls’ eyes got even wider. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

As Halorn shepherded them all outside into the courtyard between farm buildings, Durrin whispered, “I’m not up to the fifth routine right now. I just barely re-mastered the first and moved on to the second.”

Halorn winked at him. “The twins won’t know the difference.”

After repeated warnings from both Durrin and Halorn to stay well back, the three children got seated on a log about ten yards from Durrin. Taking a deep breath, he launched into the second Kymar routine.

Whereas the first routine built up power and speed gradually, the second started flashy. With a clap of his hands, Durrin summoned twin rivulets of fire. These trailed in the wake of his hands as he spun, weaving the flames like trailing ribbons on a pair of sticks; around his torso and head, between his legs, intwined together. Periodically he would throw both rivulets of fire high into the air, perform a somersault or front-flip, and land in time to catch them in his hands. The routine was flashy, fast, and fiery—exactly what Halorn’s children were looking for.

Feeling his strength waning, Durrin cut off the routine early, skipping the last round and snuffing out his flames with an explosion of cascading sparks. As the children burst into squeals and wild applause, Durrin held his final pose, his chest heaving. He’d impressed even himself—he’d started to relearn the second routine only a couple days before, yet his execution just now had been nearly flawless. He smiled. He always performed better with a crowd.

“Again!” the twins squealed. “Again!”

“I think that’s enough,” Halorn said. “We must let Master Rendhart have a break. Besides, it’s time for chores.”

“Awww!”

“No awws.”

“Please??”

“None of that, either. Hurry on, now!”

After quite a bit more awws and pleases, the girls finally ran back inside, Queasle toddling behind them.

In their absence, a sudden stillness presided. Halorn turned to Durrin, motioning toward a footpath lit with long shadows by the sinking Sun. “As for you, my old friend, it’s time we had a talk.”