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Nisang sighed. “Apologies. Didn’t mean to send you back into it.”
I leaned on the tree trunk, dizzy. “How can you be so calm?”
“First, I’ve done this before. A few times. The more you do it, the easier it gets. Eventually, everyone finds something to help them find their center before a battle. Morlash has his battle paint, I have my knives, and you…” He finally looked up and shrugged. “I guess you have your vomit.”
“What does Cian do?”
“He reads poetry.” Nisang put his stone carefully away and put his knife back before standing and flying down, careful to avoid the mess I’d made.
“I can’t imagine having the focus to read or sharpen knives right now. My head is pounding.”
“Perhaps meditation then. Hellion’s method of choice.” He leaned against a fallen branch on the other side of my oak, watching me for a long moment before he patted the log next to him.
I winced. “No offense, but I’m not sure if I want a lesson from you.”
He sighed, pinching the skin between his eyes. “I’m not good at apologies, but Iamsorry. I understand if you don’t trust me. I’ve done nothing to earn that trust, have I?”
“You were… are… Cian’s friend. That seemed like enough.”
Nisang winced. “Ouch. Below the belt. Guess I earned that one.”
I went to sit next to him.
“Now close your eyes and hold out your hand.”
I gave him a doubtful look before appeasing him warily.
Nisang pressed something cold and made of iron into my hand. I opened my eyes and found his dagger sitting in my palm, the one he had thrown in the dirt. A thin streak of bright red blood marred the otherwise perfect blade. I looked at him, expression pinched, the question unasked.
He turned his attention forward, rolling his shoulders and flexing his wings. “You’ve probably heard some of my story, that I’m not a good gargoyle, but I keep some of my people’s customs, despite that. Every blade a gargoyle warrior owns is earned, and not easily, as you know. They have a lot of significance for our people. There is a tradition. When you have wronged someone, after the disagreement is done, a warrior gives the wronged party a blade. The sharper the blade, the more trust the offending party has to place in the one he wronged. For obvious reasons. It is both a symbol of trust, and a reminder to do better.”
“Sounds like a good way to get stabbed to me,” I said.
Nisang laughed. “That’s why we wait until after the disagreement has been settled. And with gargoyles, that usually means blood has already been spilled. Considering the only blood spilled in this case was yours, I have given you mine. And my very sharp knife.”
I pressed my lips together, examining the knife. It was Thorn’s twin, though simpler in its ornamentation. “Nisang, I know what this knife means to you.”
“Briar,” he said. “It’s called Briar. Every good blade should have a name.” He pushed off the tree trunk and stopped to stretch his arms. “Now, I’d love to stay and chat forever, but I like to settle all my debts before I go into battle. I have a very dull knife with Morlash’s name on it. That should get him good and riled up. Enjoy your… vomiting.” He flexed his wings as if he were about to take off.
“Nisang.”
He paused, turning his head and arching a single eyebrow.
I lifted the knife. “Thank you.”
The gargoyle inclined his head before lifting into the sky and clearing the trees in the space of a heartbeat.
Ibathedandwentto the highest place at dawn to pray. I stood against the wind facing southwest, in the direction of the pillars of creation, and curled my toes in the wet earth. It wasn’t the same as sand or rock, but I told myself it was no less alive. Eyes closed, I breathed in therohof the world, letting the energy flow through me and back into the world through the soles of my feet.
And then I began the prayer song, slowly marking therhadaout on my body. It was an entreaty as old as time itself and common the world over. Whether they sang to the goddex, or drank to the Sky Father, or bled for the goddess triad, every religion had its prayer ritual. In my youth, I had found the ritual song an annoyance, often mumbling the words and rushing through the motions without care. Now, the monthly worship was a reminder of my homeland, of who and what I was. No matter how far I traveled, the sand song of my people would always be in my veins.
If I closed my eyes and focused hard enough, I could almost feel the brutal sun on my face. The scent of roasting figs in the air, the sticky sweet warmth of brown sugar caramel candies, the spice of ginger, cardamom, cumin and cinnamon, the sigh of wind through the sand dunes, the shimmer of mirages on the horizon, the cry of foxes in the cool of night…
More than a hundred years had passed since I left my home to fight in someone else’s war. My master thought I was mad to leave everything I knew behind after a one-night stand with the young Lord of Nightmares, but I hadn’t left that life for him. Something about the beyond had always called to me. Itchy feet, my people called it, this desire to see the world beyond. It was seen as a sickness. I was expected to get it out of my system and return to settle down. Find a partner. Produce suitable offspring and then join the clergy or some other worthy vocation. I had done none of that, nor had I ever felt the desire to.
What would my family think of me now? Here, I was a respected warrior, a viceroy whose word was law in Jaida. With a whisper, I could send men to their deaths, erect temples and bridges. I could move literal mountains with the stroke of my pen. But in Kesshir, none of that would matter. I had no legacy, produced no great works and no children, and therefore, I did not exist as far as my people were concerned. For all I had accomplished, I had left no mark on this world.
I sank to my knees, finishing the ritual kneeling, my hands resting on my knees, palms up and chest bare. An incredibly vulnerable position, especially considering I’d left my weapons behind. It was an affront to the gods to bring weapons stained with blood to prayer, and I had long ago given up carrying around ritual knives.
