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One gargoyle from the road the day before was waiting outside in a grass green tunic over eggshell white. He wore a round hat of felt and a bandolier of throwing knives. The gargoyle nodded to me as I came out and leaned forward on the flat rock he’d been occupying, wings stretched wide as if he were sunning them. It was an act. I’d known the night before that Chinua had placed a guard. It was the only reason I felt safe enough to sleep.
Dry earth crunched beneath my boots as I made my way across the camp to the open-air forge, the little billet of dreamsteel alloy in my hand. I wondered if Chinua had known what she possessed when she gave it to me. The value was more than monetary. I had reached through legend and time to recreate the impossible, yet there was still one more important ingredient to work into my recipe.
The gargoyle smith stood off to the side of the forge as if he were expecting me. I bowed to him as I had seen everyone else doing and explained that the warlord had sent me.
“Been expecting you, Maelstrom,” he said, and gave me a quick tour. When he had finished showing me around, he asked, “What will you be making?”
I told him and he nodded with approval.
All day, I worked the billet, drawing it out with heat after heat. The gargoyle smith’s hammer wasn’t quite the same as mine in my hand, but it wasn’t too unwieldy, either. Not like Xeltec’s.
I thought a lot about the old Spook while I worked. I hoped he was back in his forge in Ezulari with Dorric fussing over him.
The dreamsteel took shape. It was a simple thing, drawing out the blade, forming the tang and removing the excess, but sometimes simple was good enough. I had forgotten how good it felt to have a singular focus on my mind and my hands. There were no orders to be given or followed, no desperate looks, no lives lost if I made a mistake. The blow of the hammer and the heat of the coals could fix nearly every error. Dreamsteel forgave what war could not.
As I worked, I held that morning’s image of Cian in my mind, savored the memory of his voice, the touch of his lips. I thought about Hellion’s hair, and the way they smirked, their laugh. Memories of them let me put my heart and soul into the blade.
By the time the children were gathering to come in from the training yards in the evening, I had the basic form of a knife. I approached the gargoyle forgemaster, unfinished knife in hand. “How far is the sea from here?”
He rolled his eyes to the sky, calculating. “An hour or two by flight to the closest shore. Why do you ask?”
“I need salt water for my quench.”
He squinted at me. “I’ve got two different oils and you want sea water?”
I must have sounded mad. Indeed, it had almost seemed counter-intuitive when I thought it up on the beach that day. Quenching brittle metal in water would only make it more likely to break, producing a poor blade. Hot steel made the water flash boil too, creating bubbles and tiny pockets of air that could lead to an uneven temperature. The only way to do it would be to use a much larger barrel and move the blade throughout.
But there was another part of the hero-poet’s story that explained how and why it would work, one story he had told his beloved over those one hundred and one nights. The salt water of the Veil of Somnis was magic of the oldest kind, formed from the tears of a goddess. It matched the version of Svai’s story that Xeltec had told me. Maybe it didn’t have to make sense. Maybe I could trust the magic and believe.
It had been a reach then, and it was a reach now, but I had gotten further on belief and trust in the last months than anything else.
“Can you get it? I’ll need a big barrel.”
The gargoyle nodded slowly. “Yes, I can get it. Might not be tomorrow, though. Could be the day after.”
“That’s fine.” It would be more than two days before Cian was back on his feet if this morning was anything to judge by.
He grunted, the only response it seemed I would get.
Returning to the red yurt, I went straight to check on Cian and Hellion. They were both asleep, though Hellion had rolled over on top of Cian and kicked the pillows everywhere. Their tunic was half off, and their hair tangled. I touched Cian’s forehead, pleased to find his fever broken. A line of black soot marred his face where I had touched him. I went to get another bucket of water to clean the coal dust and the fever sweat from his body.
Cian was awake when I returned, lying on his back with both hands on his bare chest, his unbraided hair a messy white halo. Hellion was still sleeping soundly, curled up tight, almost like a cat with their tail wrapped tight around their body.
“You’re awake.” A tiny bit of water splashed onto the rug floor when I put the bucket down. I picked up an old rag, wetted it, and used it to scrub some of the dust from my blackened fingertips. “Are you in any pain?”
“You have Thorn.” A tear trickled down the side of his face, hovering near his ear.
My eyes went to the blade leaning against the wall near his bed. I uttered a curse. How could I have been so stupid as to leave it out where he would see it? I had wanted to break it to him myself, tell him gently. Instead, he’d recognized Thorn, saw it was without a master, and deduced the meaning. How long had he been lying there, alone in mourning?
I abandoned my rag and bucket and went to kneel at his bedside, leaning against the mattress. “We won because of his sacrifice, Cian.”
“I don’t care!” He slammed a fist into the mattress, trembling and startling Hellion out of their sleep. “I don’t care that he died a hero or that the battle was won. Nisang was myfriend! He’s gone, Nevahn.Gone. He was…” The grief stole his voice.
Hellion sat up and put their arms around him, dark hair draped over his shoulder. I slid up onto the bed with him and held him from the other side, letting his head rest against my forge-stained shoulder. Cian quaked and raged against us, choking on quiet tears. I wanted to speak, but there weren’t words. Not for a long time.
When there were no more tears, we sat in silence, together but alone with our own versions of heartache and guilt, entertaining different memories, different questions. Different versions of a great Nightmare gone too soon.
“I want herdead,” Cian whispered, still trembling.
