Chapter Eleven: The Blacksmith’s Son

“Smithing is the most rewarding of trades. Nothing grants more satisfaction than shaping and refining an ugly lump of ore into a beautiful sword. In many ways, it is like watching a child grow.”

—Adin Smythe, The Art of Smithing

Sometime in the night, Ein became vaguely aware of two people arguing. One of them was tall and broad, and he had a voice like a rough stone in a river. The other was smaller and more slight, and her voice quivered like a shivering bell. Behind them, in the distant sky, a storm brewed.

The woman was close to tears, her voice cracking with hysteric peaks and troughs, while the man continued to speak quietly but firmly, never wavering. His voice was that of reason, of rationality, and even though Ein couldn’t understand what was being said, he knew it to be the truth. The woman’s voice was that of emotion, want and desire, a blazing flame of feelings that sought release. It shattered like a glass pane, and the woman finally stopped speaking and began to weep. The man held her close, and they didn’t move. Lightning flickered in the distance, cracking toward the ground like a whip.

Ein wondered what kind of person could do such a thing to a woman, to shatter her so irreparably. He must be a terrible man; yet, why was the woman still holding him so?

Sleep took him again, and in his sleep he heard a song. It was a song without words, a soft melody unlike the songs of the troupers and the bumbling bards that frequented the inn. The music grasped him warmly by the hand and enveloped him, rocking him gently by a crackling fireplace. It smelled like his mother and father, like his sister and his friends, like the first blooming flower of spring and the drip-dripping of morning dew. Though it was a song without words, he heard it all the same, and understood it. Rest, it said. Be well again.

He was sick with a fever, lying in a bed with a wet cloth on his forehead, and his mother was feeding him spoon after spoon of steaming chicken soup. Each mouthful he swallowed sent a fire rushing to the tips of his fingers and toes; not the painful-hot fire of the furnace, but the soothing warmth of a hearth on a winter’s morning. Rest, his mother said. Be well again.

He was on the floor crying, clutching at a scrape on his knee, and Evaine was there, laughing at him, scrubbing his wound clean with alcohol. Be a man, she told him, as she tore a strip of linen and wrapped it around his leg. She let him win at skipping stones later that evening, and it was the first time he’d ever beaten her. When he jumped up and down in exhilaration, she simply smiled. Rest, she said. Be well again.

“Close your eyes and sleep,

For tomorrow is a new day.”

And he woke once more, his body laden with fatigue, his lungs aching with each breath. He saw a young girl with long, black hair and quicksilver eyes, and an older girl with a dark braid that snaked down to her waist. They were sitting on two chairs in the corner, sleeping. The younger girl rested her head on the older girl’s shoulder.

And then he was sleeping again. Sometime in the night, the song stopped—but the storm continued.

#

Evaine was the first to realize he was awake, and the first to knock the breath out of him with a gripping hug. Cinnamin was next, and then his mother was rushing through the door and embracing him as well.

“Can’t… breathe…”

Ein nearly lapsed into unconsciousness again. Bran and Koth arrived not long after, and then Garax and Talberon, and quite soon the entire room was packed with more people than he could count.

“What happened?” Ein asked. His throat felt red and raw, like someone had pulled it out and ground it against the floorboards before shoving it back in. He remembered the burning house and the feel of his sword piercing flesh, and an ominous storm brewing in the distance, but everything after that was a murky haze.

“You almost died, that’s what happened,” Garax grunted. He had a sword strapped to his side which hadn’t been there before. “I found you half dead on the floor, roasting in the flames. Managed to get you out before the whole house fell down. Never in my life have I wished I had two working hands more than that moment.” He smiled grimly.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Talberon said, scribbling something into a book. “Your back was covered in burns of the worst degree. It took me the entire night to treat it all.”

Ein felt behind his shoulders, pressing his fingers against the sweat-stained cloth of his shirt. He ran his fingers along his skin. It was smooth and tender, like the skin of a newborn babe. He looked down at his hands, peered beneath his collar. There was nothing to suggest he’d ever been injured, except for the ragged pain that flooded his lungs with each breath.

“How?” he asked.

“Magic,” Helda said, with an expression halfway between admiration and aversion.

Talberon looked away. “It doesn’t matter how. Just that you’re fixed.”

“You did a mighty fine deed that night,” Koth said. “Rescuing those children. I’m sure your father is proud of you. Right, Alend?”

“I would have preferred it if you’d collapsed after reaching safety first,” Alend said, but he was smiling. “The troupers will be singing tales of your feat for years to come.”

Herod winked from the doorway. With the entire room’s focus upon him, Ein didn’t know where to look.

“How long have I been sleeping for?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” Cinnamin returned. “Founder’s Eve was only last night.”

Last night! Ein shook his head. Of course. Otherwise, my father would be halfway to Aldoran.

“Anyway,” Helda cleared her throat, “it’s good to see you alive and well, Ein. If you’ll excuse me, I have to go and tend to other people now.”

“Yes,” Talberon agreed, as did several others around the room. As they all trickled out except Evaine and Cinnamin, Ein noted his father’s sluggish gait and the way he clutched at his abdomen. It made for a stark contrast to the sure-footed way he usually carried himself.

“Is my father injured?” he asked. “He doesn’t look well.”

Rhea was the last to leave them. Once the door was shut, Evaine sat back down on her chair beside the bed.

“Congratulations,” Evaine said. “You’re a Hero of Felhaven now.”

“A what?”

“A Hero of Felhaven. That’s what they’re calling you, Talberon and Garax,” Evaine said. “The three men who single-handedly drove back the relicts.”

What about my father? “I didn’t really do anything,” Ein said, even though his chest swelled with pride. “The Songweaver, on the other hand… and did Garax always have that sword?”

“Master Garax killed almost ten of the things by himself,” Cinnamin said. “And he saved countless more.”

“How many people…” Ein swallowed. “How many people died?”

Evaine was silent for a moment.

“Twenty. And it would have been twenty-three if it weren’t for you. Maybe even twenty-four, because I would have been killed as well.” She offered him a smile. “Don’t think too much on it, Ein. We did everything we could. What happened, happened. As the troupers would say, ‘It is as the wind wills.’”

Twenty! The amount would not go unnoticed in a village of their size.

“What about Father?” Ein looked towards Cinnamin this time. She avoided his eye. “How is he? Is he hurt?”

“Father—”

“He was stabbed by Sanson. Sanson was a traitor.”

It took Ein a moment to register what Evaine had just said.

“What do you mean Sanson was a traitor?” he cried. Almost immediately he regretted it as his lungs filled with searing pain.

“The Songweaver was calling him a Faceless,” Evaine said pointedly. “Supposedly he was a servant of Al’Ashar, and the reason the relicts found us.”

“Al'Ashar?” Ein winced again. “The Oathbreaker?”

Evaine shrugged. “I’m just telling you what I overheard. They couldn’t find his body either, only a pile of ashes. Mayor Walmsley told everyone he died in one of the fires. Bran doesn’t know, and I don’t think we should tell him.”

Ein quietly looked at his hands. Nothing had ever struck him as unusual about the butcher. He never would have expected Sanson to be a servant of evil.

But how else could the relicts have found their way to Felhaven? It was more than likely someone had led them here. Bran’s father was responsible for the deaths of so many, and the destruction of so many homes. Bran’s father had almost killed Alend.

“Is Father alright?” Ein repeated. He’d seen Alend up and walking, but he was pale and in not much better shape than Evaine’s parents.

“He’ll be fine,” Cinnamin said. “But Mistress Helda said it will take a while for his wound to heal.”

“Can’t the Songweaver heal them with magic?”

Cinnamin shook her head. “Apparently he was stabbed with a special blade. Magic doesn’t work on it.”

Ein cursed. To think that less than a day ago they’d been revelling in Founder’s Eve, fretting over talk of marriages and departure. It seemed like so long ago that the festival had happened. It had been a memorable one, that was for sure. A memorable nightmare. He would hear fire and screams, smell smoke and blood for a while yet.

“I’m going for a walk,” Ein said. He rolled over, ignoring the protest in his muscles. Evaine and Cinnamin grabbed hold of his arms, steadying him.

“You should rest,” Cinnamin said. “Helda said you should stay in bed for at least another day.”

“If you want, I’ll bring the stones over and we can play Capture,” Evaine said. “I’ll stay with you to stave off the boredom.”

Ein shook his head. “No,” he said. “I need to see the village for myself. And I need some fresh air; my head is swimming.”

Evaine and Cinnamin looked uncertainly at each other.

“We’ll come with you—” his sister began.

Ein raised a hand. “I want to be alone for a bit.”

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Cinnamin bit her lip. As Ein tried to walk past her, she thrust something into his hand. “Take this then,” she said.

Ein looked at the item he’d been given. It was a charm of some sort, a coin-sized pendant made of polished wood. A sigil was carved into it—three raven wings branching from a single point. It was a plain piece of jewellery, something no bandit would want to steal, and Ein suspected it had been made that way for a reason.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked.

Cinnamin nodded. “The Songweaver gave it to me,” she said, fingering an identical pendant around her own neck. “He said to give you one as well. It’s a good luck charm.”

No it’s not, Ein thought. It’s to hide our presence from the relicts. Because for some reason, they have business with those of the Thoren bloodline. He closed his fingers around the trinket. He didn’t know what the symbol meant, but there was a chance it could raise some eyebrows around the village.

“Thank you,” he smiled, ruffling her hair. “I’ll be sure to wear it. I think it would be a good idea not to have it in plain sight, though.” He tucked it underneath his shirt. “You wouldn’t want the other children to be jealous, would you?”

Cinnamin nodded in agreement. He made for the door again, and this time neither of them stopped him.

The main foyer of the Sleeping Twinn was a hive of activity. Barely anyone paid him any heed as he plodded along, stretching the soreness from muscles he didn’t know existed. The tables and chairs had been stacked to one side to make way for a sea of bedrolls and groaning patients. Anyone who wasn’t sleeping or complaining was tending to someone who was. The smell of sweat hung heavily in the air.

“How are you feeling, hero?”

Bran, Garax and another man waved at him from one side of the room. Ein felt a smile light up his face as he recognized Evaine’s father.

“Master Tamelyn!” he exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’re alright!”

Nath shook his hand. “I’ve only the Songweaver to thank,” he said. “A miracle worker, he is.”

“Does Evaine know you’re awake?”

Nath chuckled. “Of course. But she’s spent more time watching over you than she has her own father.” He patted him on the shoulder. “Thank you, son. Not just on behalf of the village, but for looking after my daughter.”

Ein scratched his cheek, embarrassed. “I didn’t really do anything,” he said. “The Songweaver did most of the work.” He recalled Talberon rising from the fires of ruin, calling up nature to do his bidding. Another legend to add to Felhaven’s history, alongside the feats of the twins Fel and Brackenburg.

“Don’t be silly,” Bran said. “You saved me and the two children. You made short work of that Worgal like it was nothing, and the Bloodman too.”

“Bloodmane,” Garax corrected. “It was at full strength, too. A Bloodmane will dye its mane red every time it feeds.”

Nath shuddered. “I remember that thing,” he said. “The gods truly watched over me that day. I shouldn’t be alive.”

“They ingest blood through their blades, which are crafted from their own bone. That would be the reason it slaughtered all the animals on your farm,” Garax continued. “A fully fed Bloodmane can match with some of the higher ranking generals in the King’s Legion.” He looked Ein up and down with a thoughtful expression. “I’m surprised you were able to kill it, actually. That thing could have single-handedly demolished Felhaven’s population. I suppose between you both, fighting in a burning house was more detrimental for the relict.”

“It was the fire,” Ein agreed. “I don’t think I would have won if we hadn’t fought in a burning house.” Kalador truly watched over me.

“Most of the villagers won’t know that,” Nath winked. “Nor would they care if they knew. I’m already hearing songs of the blacksmith’s son.”

“Sorry,” Garax said. He didn’t look sorry at all. “I couldn’t resist.

A misty moon on Founder’s Eve,

A night for dancing and reprieve,

Over the hills the demons came,

Swinging swords and breathing flame.

Kill they did, burn and plunder,

Men and women, ripped asunder.

The sky was black and grey with smoke,

The ground was red with dying folk.

From the ashes did he rise,

See the carnage, hear their cries,

The blacksmith’s son, a gentle lad,

Always calm now, he was mad.

Charge he did, roaring, leaping,

Thrusting, slashing, sword sweeping,

The bodies did pile, higher and higher,

Reaching the heavens, fuelling the fire.

And in the end he stood alone,

Surrounded by blood and ashes and bone,

Felhaven’s Hero, the blacksmith’s son,

His legend had only just begun.”

“Are you alright, Ein?” Bran asked. “You look a bit pale.”

“I’m no hero,” he muttered beneath his breath. Gods, that isn’t what happened at all. “I’m no hero. I just… I just did what felt right. If I didn’t fight it, it would have killed you and the children.” I don’t want to be a hero. I don’t want people to see me as a hero.

“A hero is a person who fights, even when he doesn’t want to,” Garax said.

Ein shook his head. “I’m not a hero. I’m just a blacksmith’s son.” He looked up. “Have you seen my father, by any chance? I need to talk to him.”

“I saw him a while ago,” Nath said. “Try the forge or the stables. I think he said he was leaving or something. Had a terrible argument with your mother last night, one I’m not sure I was supposed to hear.”

“Leaving?” Bran raised an eyebrow. “What for?”

“The hell if I’d know. Anyway, I’m heading upstairs to get some rest. These old bones aren’t as young as they used to be.”

“Me too,” Garax said, stifling a yawn. “I’ve got some things to take care of as well.”

Bran looked towards Ein. “Want to head outside then? I’ve got some errands to run as well.”

“Alright.”

#

For a village that had nearly been razed to the ground, the Felhaveners were surprisingly composed. They laughed and joked while they could, sifting through the ruins of charred houses and blackened piles of ash and timber. It was a facade and anyone with half an eye could see it, but they kept it up all the same. There was no use in brooding; the incident was over and nothing could reverse it. Only when they’d finished picking up the pieces of their life would they allow themselves to mourn.

“Where are the troupers?” Ein asked. He hadn’t seen anyone in green and gold for the entire day.

“Most of them are helping find spots outside the village to bury the dead,” Bran answered. “The others are packing and preparing to leave. They were due to leave this morning, but after the attack several of them stayed to help put out the fires and tend to the injured.”

“I see.”

They walked past the village square. The giant thorns and vines were gone, but cracks still remained in the ground where they’d sprouted. Ein never would have believed in such magic—real magic, not the tricks Talberon had displayed during the festival—had he not seen it with his own eyes.

“I’m sorry about your father,” he finally said. They’d reached a deserted corner of the village, a fork in the road that split off to the forge in one direction and the butchery in the other. Barely any snow lined the ground. It was warm for a winter’s day.

Bran loosed a shaky laugh. “In a way, I’m glad he’s dead.”

Ein frowned. “Why do you say that?”

Bran looked up. He was crying.

“I’m useless,” he said. Tears streamed silently down his face. “I’m a coward. Didn’t you see me in that house? I wet my pants, Ein, like a baby. I was a snivelling wreck, begging the relict to spare my life. I went in to save those children and ended up needing to be saved myself.” The words came out of him in a jumbled mess, faster and faster like a stone tumbling down a hill. “What sort of father would want a son like that? One who can’t stand up for himself, one who can’t even make his future wife happy? I don’t blame Evaine for hating me. I wish I was you, Ein. I wish I could be as brave and composed as you—”

Ein lashed his palm across Bran’s face. The taller boy staggered backwards, clutching his cheek in shock.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “First of all, Evaine doesn’t hate you at all. Why would she spend so much time around you if she did? Use your brain.”

“But—”

“Secondly, you think you’re the only one?” Ein felt his own voice rising. “I’m not brave at all. When Einar was killed, it took everything I had not to cry in front of Evaine. I saw a dead person for the first time yesterday, and I nearly threw up my guts. I would have soiled my pants if I had anything to soil.”

A terse silence floated between them.

“I was so scared,” Bran mumbled. “I don’t even know why I did it. By the time you found me, I was willing to let those children die just to save myself. I was regretting jumping into the fire to save them. I would have sold my soul to Al’Ashar to live.”

Ein looked down.

“If I was you,” he said in a quiet voice, “I wouldn’t have even gone into the fire. I would have left those children to die.”

Bran blinked and gaped at him, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “Surely not?”

Ein nodded. “I would have, I’m sure of it. The only reason I went in, aside from the fact that you and Evaine were there, was because I was sure I could get out. A man who goes into a burning building to save two children, even when he knows he won’t come out alive, is braver than a man who goes in knowing he’ll come out alive.” I’m not a hero, Bran. Don’t look at me like I’m a hero.

Bran wiped his eyes and sniffed. A faint mark had begun to appear on his cheek. “Braver but more stupid,” he said. “I would have died if you hadn’t saved me. It would have been a needless death.”

Ein shrugged. “Some things are worth dying for.”

Bran smiled painfully. “Damn it,” he said. He squeezed his eyes shut and looked toward the sky. “That sounds exactly like what a hero of Felhaven would say.”

Ein shook his head. “I don’t want to be a hero,” he said. “I just want things to stay the same forever. You, me, Evaine and Cinnamin, Mother and Father.” And now I’ve lost Einar, I’m about to lose Evaine and my father, and half the village is gone. He shook his head and cleared his thoughts. “Come on. Didn’t you have errands to run?”

#

Talberon and Alend sifted through the ruins of the shed behind Sanson’s house. The brief storm that had passed overnight had done wonders to douse the flames.

The druid dug out a blackened plank and tossed it one side. Alend did the same. He might not have welcomed the other’s presence in his village, but they needed to get to the bottom of the matter, and quickly. Before Bran came back.

“I’ve found it.”

Talberon sang a word, causing the wreckage to groan as it shifted apart. Sanson’s collection of knives slid across the damp wood, clearing a small space in the debris. On the ground a circle had been carved, a curved line splicing it in two so it resembled a crescent moon. To the right of the crescent moon was an open eye.

“The Watching Moon,” Alend breathed. “The mark of Al’Ashar. No wonder he didn’t want Evaine staying over—she would have found it, given her inquisitive nature.”

“There can no longer be any doubt,” the druid agreed. “This man was a Faceless. Only the servants of Al’Ashar have such shrines within their homes, enabling communication between them and their lord.”

Alend shook his head. He couldn’t believe it, even though he knew it was true. The Faceless were men and women who had given their flesh to the Oathbreaker in exchange for something only He could offer them. Aside from their increased resistance to pain and vulnerability to fire, salt and soulforged steel, there was no way to tell them apart. Only when they were dead would their human exteriors melt away to reveal their rotten core, their skin taking the form of the demons they had become.

“Since when, Sanson…?” Alend muttered. For how long had the butcher played them all to the tune of his fiddle? A month? A year? He didn’t dare think further.

Talberon lifted a plank of wood back over the circle. “It would be best if we left as soon as we could, Deserter. I will be waiting for you by the Wydling camp.”

Alend nodded grimly and began making his way back to the forge, dark thoughts in his head.

#

Ein found his father in the forge, packing his belongings into a travelling bag. Alend looked up in surprise as his son entered the storeroom, folding his arms.

“Going somewhere?” Ein asked.

Alend put down the blankets and faced him. Ein noted the bastard sword strapped by his father’s waist, the faint glint of fiery orange peeking through the leather straps, the golden ring on his thumb. He noted the way Alend winced every time he breathed, his hand moving instinctively to his abdomen every time he turned or straightened his back. His father was hurt, and he was having a hard time hiding it.

“I’m heading to Aldoran for a while,” Alend said. “There are some things I need to take care of.”

“Really?” Ein pulled the wooden charm from his neck, fingering it. Alend narrowed his eyes. “What sort of things?”

“A business trip,” he said. “To make some extra coin. The forge has been a bit slow lately in terms of customers.”

“Business trip,” Ein repeated. “That’s not what I heard.”

“What did you hear?”

“That you’re heading to Aldoran because Aedrasil needs you. Your blood is needed to save it—the blood of a Thoren.”

Alend let the bag drop to the ground. “Who told you this? Was it your mother?”

“No.” Ein shook his head. “I heard you and Talberon talking the night before yesterday. I was going to ask you about it, but then… well, you know what happened.”

Alend heaved a heavy sigh. “Damn you,” he said. “Always listening in on things you’re not supposed to. I take it you were with Bran and Evaine that night?”

“I was.”

Alend nodded. “Well, now you know. Don’t tell Cinnamin or anyone else, for that matter. No use in people learning of my heritage.” He turned to finish packing, but Ein took a step in front of him.

“Hang on,” he said. “You can’t be seriously considering going on a journey to the Capitol in that condition. What if you get attacked? The way you are now, a light wind could knock you over.”

“I have no choice.” Ein’s father looked down. He seemed to have shrunk a bit over the last few days. “If I don’t leave, Felhaven won’t be the only thing that gets razed to the ground. The whole of Faengard is relying on the Ward Tree to hold back the relicts.”

“I’ll go in your place,” Ein said. “The same blood runs in our veins. I’m younger and in better shape. You’ve trained me well. I should be able to go with Talberon to Aldoran and do what needs to be done.”

Alend shook his head. “That won’t do.”

“Why not?”

Ein’s father stared at him with sad, empty eyes. “Because you’re not my son.”