Chapter Twenty-Three: Reunion

“The Winds have a way of bringing people together.”

—Unknown

Ein couldn’t help but feel a sense of déjà vu as Bran gushed on, telling him everything that had happened since the night of the storm. He’d been in the exact same position back in the Sleeping Twinn not long ago, talking to Evaine and Cinnamin in the aftermath of the relict attack.

She’s gone, he thought numbly. Evaine’s gone.

He’d expected to shed a tear or two, but his eyes were bone dry. There was only a sense of emptiness inside him, and a cold fury like a biting wind blowing across a wasteland.

“—can’t believe we made it,” Bran finished, shaking his head. “I thought we were goners, especially when we almost ran into those bandits. And the Worgals! Ein, you should have seen them… they… they ate each other. The Worgals cannibalized each other!”

Ein sat up, guzzling the mug of water on the table beside him. He was in an infirmary of sorts, a small room with a shelf of herbs and poultices on the wall at the far end, an alchemy set on a table in the corner. Medical supplies were strewn around it, bandages and scissors and scalpels, a set of scales, a strange device of convoluted glass tubing that he didn’t know the name for. The smell of alcohol hung flagrant in the air.

Lord Drakhorn stood by the doorway to the room, speaking animatedly with the flame-haired girl called Rhinne. She looked familiar, though Ein was certain he’d never seen her before. Then again he’d been hallucinating for three days straight, seeing things he couldn’t hope to comprehend. He remembered voices, countless voices melding into an incoherent buzz, and a blurred sea of faces to go with those voices.

I AM THE END.

Had he really seen Al'Ashar himself? The half-blackened face was harrowing in his mind, the single eye boring a hole through his skull. A crescent moon with an open eye beside it—the Oathbreaker’s emblem, the Watching Moon made sense to him now.

Drakhorn noticed Ein and excused himself, leaving Rhinne by the doorway. The tailor rolled up his sleeves and withdrew a mercury thermometer from his breast pocket.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“Terrible.” Ein took the tube into his lips and met the other’s eyes. “Thank you for saving me.”

Drakhorn threw a passing glance at the thermometer and then rubbed it with a white cloth. Placing it on the bedside table, he picked up a lantern and lit it with a candle. The flame burst into a harsh white light, blinding Ein. Ein squinted and raised a hand to cover his eyes.

“Look away from the light,” Drakhorn said, pulling his hand away.

“What are you doing—”

“Don’t resist,” Rhinne said from the doorway, playing with a charm around her neck. “He’s not here to hurt you.”

Ein faltered and dropped his hand. Drakhorn lifted both of Ein’s eyelids, peering into the pupils beneath. Ein tried not to stare into the light. It was almost as bright as the sun.

“Good,” Drakhorn said, and blew out the lantern. “The rings are gone. You should be back to full health in a day or two.” He stood up and looked to Bran. “The gods must be watching over him—not many people live past a third day of Soulsickness.”

“Soulsickness? What’s that?” Ein frowned.

“It’s a condition that only affects Songweavers. It happens when they try to sing a Soulsong more powerful than they can handle.”

Songweaver. Wasn’t that what Lady Reyalin had called him? And the Oathbreaker had called him something else as well. Tel'rahn. But the Soulsong was magic. Wizened men like Talberon had magic, not the sons of blacksmiths.

But I’m not his son.

“I’m not a Songweaver,” Ein said, more to himself than anything. “I don’t have magic.”

“That’s not what your friend told me.”

Ein looked at Bran, who turned away. “You called down lightning from the sky,” Bran mumbled. “Just like in the legends.”

Ein sat dumbfounded, looking at his hands. There had been lightning, and he did remember screaming something. But to go as far as to call him a Songweaver? He knitted his brows and scrunched his eyes shut. His head throbbed behind them.

“Who are you?” Ein asked. “Who are you really?”

Drakhorn shrugged. “Like Bran said, I’m just a tailor.”

“He’s an acquaintance of mine,” Rhinne said, “or rather, of my mother’s. Back in his youth he used to be an alchemist. He could cure the most grievous of ailments and bring people back from the brink of death.”

“You’re too kind.” Drakhorn heaved a sigh. “Times have changed. For one, alchemy is damn expensive now. I must have used up a week’s wages worth of ingredients to fix you up. Not to mention your father.”

“My… father?” Ein swivelled around to Bran.

“I didn’t want to tell you yet,” Bran said. “But by some stroke of luck—”

“The Winds of Fate are in full force,” Drakhorn said. “Father and son, brought together under the same roof.”

“Where?” Ein demanded, surprising himself with his alacrity. He clambered out of bed, wincing as Bran took his arm and helped him up.

“Calm down,” Rhinne said, peeking around the edge of the doorframe. “He’s not going anywhere anytime soon. He wants to talk to you as well.”

She took a step away and there, looking so drawn and haggard than he could have been washed through the river and hung up to dry, was Alend.

“Father…” Ein drew a sharp breath.

He’d thought about this moment for so long in his head, what he would say, the allegations he’d make, but now that it had finally come to pass, all he could manage was silence. Alend had a pained expression on his face, his eyes lowered to the ground, unable to meet his son’s. It been little more than a week since they’d left the village, but it already felt like a lifetime’s worth of events had happened.

“I’m sorry, Ein—” Alend began.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Ein asked. “Sixteen years… Sixteen years and I never even knew…” Drakhorn turned away uncomfortably. Rhinne pretended to dig at something beneath her nails, while Bran furrowed his brow in confusion. “Were you ever going to let me know?”

“I wanted to, son. I wanted to, but every time I resolved to bring it up… I just couldn’t do it.” Alend finally looked up. He was so old, so tired, so shrivelled—a shadow of the man Ein had looked up to.

“And you left right after as well,” Ein went on. Words escaped him faster than he could think. “You didn’t even say goodbye properly. What if you never came back? You might not be my real father, but… you’re the only father I’ve ever known. I don’t want you to go off and die and never come back.”

Bran gasped. “You mean, Alend isn’t your father?”

Alend ignored Bran and raised his chin. “What about you? You’re my only son, Ein. I never intended to leave you. I only skipped the goodbyes because I wanted to get things over and done with as soon as possible.” He took a step forward. “You, Rhea and Cinnamin, I would die for you. The world outside of the Sleeping Twins is dangerous, Ein, and I’d never want any harm to befall you. If I didn’t leave right away, I’d be placing you all in danger.”

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“Did you ever consider how I felt?” Ein demanded. “You always go off and decide things on your own. You were going off to hunt the relicts even before they came to us, without letting any of us know. You didn’t tell us a thing about Talberon coming to whisk you away. I’m not a boy anymore, Father. I’ve had my first Dance. Isn’t it about time you started including me in your decisions?”

“You think you’re a man but you’re not,” Alend said. “You’re young and impulsive. Look at you, come chasing after me of your own accord, nearly killing yourself in the process. You know how scared I was for you when your friends dragged you in here, half dead and rambling?” He drew a deep breath and looked at Bran. “You too, Bran. Why didn’t you talk more sense into him? Look at what’s come of this mess. We’re in Caerlon now, far away from home, and Evaine is dead…”

“You’re one to talk,” retorted Ein. “Look at yourself. You almost died in Felhaven and then you left right after, and now you’ve almost died again. You’re skin and bones, Father. You look like you’ve seen the White Women themselves. And as for Evaine…” He took a deep breath as well. “As for Evaine… maybe if we all went together, she wouldn’t have died. You would have seen them coming, Father. The Worgals, when they came to ambush us in the night. If you were there we could have fought back.”

They stood an arm’s length apart, facing each other, panting. Ein kept his chin up and glared at his father, and his father glared back.

“Why can’t you just admit you’re getting too old for this sort of stuff? You don’t have to run off and do everything by yourself.”

“I might be old, but I can still handle myself better than you.”

“You’re so stubborn,” Ein said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“Ever heard of the saying, ‘like father, like son?’”

“But I’m not your son.”

“Exactly.”

They both sighed and then bumbled into each other, embracing like drunken men. Rhinne sheathed her knife at Bran’s questioning glance.

“I thought they were going to fight,” she explained. “They sure sounded like it.”

“No,” Bran said, looking strangely satisfied at the sight. “That’s just the way some men are.”

#

It took almost an hour for Alend to exchange recounts with everyone else. In that time, Drakhorn fixed up a small dinner using the supplies Rhinne had plundered from the bandits, and before long the tension had completely dissolved between the two Thorens.

“A Kingsblade in the service of the High King himself,” Drakhorn said, “and a Deserter at that.” Alend winced at the mention of his title. “I’m surprised the Faceless were the only ones after you. If any bounty hunters or guards caught wind of your return, they’d be swarming the town looking for you.”

“A Kingsblade,” Ein breathed, feeling newfound respect for Alend. “It all makes sense now. I always wondered where you’d learned everything from. You know more things than an ordinary blacksmith should.”

“Kingsblades are the ultimate soldiers,” Alend said. “Though the price to become one is steep indeed. Strength does not come without cost.”

“I’ll say,” Drakhorn nodded, spreading a layer of grease across his loaf. “I’ve fought alongside them before. They’re like demons in battle, human machines.”

“Why did you leave?” Ein asked. “Wasn’t it exciting living as a Kingsblade? Hunting and slaying monsters, keeping the peace in the name of the King, doing heroic deeds? You would have had a property in the city and income until the end of your days. Why give that up to hide in a village in the middle of nowhere?”

“You’re starting to sound like Evaine,” Alend growled. “The life of a Kingsblade is a dangerous one, Ein. Your entire bloodline is dedicated to the Uldan House. Not just your life, but the life of your children, and your children’s children. If you’d ever experienced the type of training a Kingsblade gets put through, you would understand. I would never want you or Cinnamin going through that.”

“But why?” Ein asked. “Surely there are people out there who would actually want to go down that path?”

“Because we have the blood of kings,” Alend said simply. “We carry the Thoren name upon our shoulders, and as long as we exist, we are a threat to the Uldan reign. The Kingsblades were created for House Uldan to monitor its rival families and their descendants, all under the farce of a peace treaty. Breaking the Vow places the status of Deserter upon you, a crime punishable by death. Upholding the Vow binds you for the rest of your life. There are people out there who support our name, Ein, who believe us to be the rightful claimants to the throne, and Aedon doesn’t like that. Even now, when we’re all believed to be dead, he turns his attention to other houses—the Leonharts, for one.”

“If becoming a Kingsblade grants you so much power, couldn’t you just use it to overthrow the King?” Ein asked. “Kingsblades are the ultimate warriors, aren’t they? It would be hard to stop you.”

Alend shook his head. “You see, the magic of the Vow is such that the taker must obey the command of his master at all times. The High King has absolute control over all his elite, and through them, absolute control over the rival Houses.”

“Cinnamin…” Ein breathed.

Alend nodded. “Yes. Cinnamin has a right to the throne. What do you think King Aedon would do if he became aware of her existence? He’d draft her as a Kingsblade. She would grow up never knowing the life of an ordinary girl. Do you see why I left?”

“And now if you return, he’ll be able to track you back to Felhaven…”

“Exactly.” Alend sighed. “There were a few other factors that contributed to my decision to leave, but that was the main one. Nothing short of the end of the world would have convinced me to go back.” He gave a hollow chuckle.

“Ein should be safe though, shouldn’t he?” Bran, who’d been silently eating and listening, finally spoke up. “He’s not a true member of the Thoren House.” Bran had been wide-eyed and disbelieving when Ein had explained it all to him, and was only just appearing to come to terms with the fact.

“I’m hoping that’s the case. But if word ever gets out that he can wield the Soulsong…” Alend’s face clouded. “Let’s just say that King Aedon needs as many Songweavers as he can muster, especially in times like these, and survival rates don’t look high when it comes time for war.”

“Speaking of Songweavers,” Bran said, “didn’t you say you were travelling with the druid? Where is he now?”

“Druid?” Rhinne snapped to attention.

“Probably looking for me back at the inn. He won’t be very pleased to find out that I’ve gone for a walk.”

“Indeed. You might even say I’m furious.” The voice that spoke came from the window, startling them all. Rhinne leapt back from her seat and reached for her knife, her mouth still full of dried meat. A sparrow flitted across the table in a flurry of feathers, vanishing as it touched down. In its place was Talberon, forest-green cloak around him, his clear blue eyes frosted over with mistrust.

“Alend,” he demanded. “Who are these people?” He looked at Drakhorn and Rhinne with all the stillness of a stone in a storm, emanating an aura of intense volition.

“Druid,” Rhinne hissed. She leapt back with surprising dexterity, opening up the distance between them, her knife finding its way into a reverse grip. She remained low to the ground like a coiled predator, ready to fight at a moment’s notice. Drakhorn rose to his feet as well, taking his place a few steps in front of her, shifting himself into a defensive stance.

“Talberon!” Alend stood up, steel taking over his eyes. “These people are on our side. Lord Drakhorn saved my life, and my son’s too. And if it weren’t for Rhinne here, Ein would almost certainly have died.”

Bran looked back and forth between the blacksmith and the druid, nervously biting his lip.

“Just because he saved your life doesn’t mean you can trust him,” Talberon said, almost growing in presence with each word. “Tell me what you know about this person, Alend. At first glance he appears to be a tailor, but tailors don’t have such in-depth knowledge of herbs and medicine.”

“He was an alchemist,” Ein said, cutting in. He too had stood up, leaving Bran the only one seated at the table.

“Yes? So tell me, alchemist. Why are you living a life all the way out here as a tailor? And why would you risk your life to save a man from a Faceless?”

“Is it so wrong to wish to save another man’s life?” Drakhorn asked. He was quiet and calm despite the druid’s cutting interrogation. “What else is a healer to do? Saving lives is our purpose, druid.”

“Perhaps,” said Talberon. “Tell me this, then. Why does a simple alchemist have a door laced with Darksteel, a metal that is all but extinct? A metal forged from the fire of dragons, who haven’t been seen in Faengard since the Age of Legends?”

“And what would you know about that?” Rhinne spat, eyes blazing gold. “After mankind robbed us of our power and drove us from our home? Your order is supposed to preserve the balance of Faengard, yet you helped them! You reduced our proud race to… to this!” She gestured at herself, teeth bared.

“Lady Rhinne—” Drakhorn began.

“We had no choice,” Talberon said quietly. “We would have avoided it if we could. We had to stop the relicts before they damaged the land beyond repair.”

“And so you damaged us beyond repair,” Rhinne seethed. “Took away our only form of defence, even though we were on your side. Even now, we face the same enemy—He who Seeks to Quell the Heartfire—and you dare question us for aiding the enemy of our enemy?”

“So it’s true,” Talberon murmured. All the fight left him in an instant, like a light that had suddenly flickered out of existence. “I’d suspected it was the case, but I had to make sure it was true.”

“It’s true, druid. After all this time, we dragons have clung miserably to our half-lives,” Rhinne said. “Cursed to look forever at the sky, dreaming of the days that we could fly.”

As Ein, Bran and Alend watched the exchange with wide eyes, there came a sudden knock from outside. Rhinne and Talberon spun around. Drakhorn eyed the door warily.

“Don’t open it,” Talberon warned. “It might be the Faceless. The Darksteel frame will protect us as long as we keep the door closed.”

The knocking came again, louder. Alend reached for the sword by his waist. Ein tried to do the same, only to remember he’d lost his sword in the storm.

“Could it be a customer?” Bran asked.

“It’s not a customer,” Drakhorn replied. “You don’t buy clothes in the middle of the night, especially not during a world-wide recession.”

The door rattled again and this time there was a muffled voice, one that Ein and Bran knew all too well.

“Hello? Is anyone in there?”

They rose to their feet at once. “Evaine,” they said simultaneously.

“Wait!” Talberon rushed forwards, trying to pull them back. “Don’t open it—”

But the two boys were already there, pulling back the locks and unbarring the door. It creaked open, a sound that seemed to stretch for an eternity, a cold gust of wind slithering through the doorframe…

And there stood Evaine Tamelyn, face flushed with sweat, her eyes widening to saucers as she saw the two, Garax the storyteller smiling crookedly behind her.