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Thren runs his fingers over one of the tables, whose legs appear to be bolted to the floor. He fumbles for a second, then presses down. With a pop, a click, and a scrape of wood, the table and a section of the floor beneath it swing aside, revealing a square hole and a cramped spiral staircase of rusty metal, descending into bluish gloom.
“You first.” Thren regards me with hooded eyes.
Rupert may have been an honest, good-hearted sort—a simple, trusting man—but I am neither honest nor trusting, good-hearted nor simple. I know a trap when I see it. And I have the advantage, because Thren thinks I’m a mild-mannered human eunuch, a disgraced palace servant in a precarious position—but I am a Half-Elf, gifted with magic. And I have combat skills too, beaten into me by my father’s staff and his riding crop.
I’m not afraid of this two-faced dealer of cursed objects.
I descend the spiral staircase into the dark, whispering a shield charm under my breath. I suspect Thren will throw some sort of Elvish magic my way, and the shield will deflect most of it, if not all.
Blue Elf-lights glow along the walls of the subterranean chamber. They function off the energy of plants, usually a specific type of vine called amsivore, and sure enough, the walls are covered with it. In the center of the room, two tables hold boxes, trays, canisters, and parcels, all containing Elvish items, if I had to guess.
Something sparks off my shield—a malevolent force trying to penetrate to my skin. A paralytic curse, judging by the rhythmic pulse of the energy—a spell that would have knocked me down and rendered me helpless. But my shield defends me, and I spin just in time to duck the blade that Thren is swinging toward my throat.
I recognize that blade instantly as the handiwork of Hamon Azanel, a renowned Elvish craftsman. If it’s the sword I think it is, it’s priceless—and it’s also the source of the paralytic curse he tried to use on me.
I spin out of range of the weapon and glance around for something I can use to defend myself. I’d rather not use any more of my magical energy unless I have to.
“How are you still moving?” Thren grits out, slashing at me again. I pick up a small chest from a table and throw it at him.
“Stop!” he shouts, fumbling, trying to catch it. “These objects are extremely volatile! You’ll kill us both!”
“I’m happy to take that chance. I’ll heal faster than you will.”
“You’re not Rupert. Who are you?”
I grab a tray of vials and nearly throw it at him, but it strikes me that perhaps the fennisley is on that tray, and I’d rather not lose the one thing I need from this man. So instead I dart around the table and spin into a high-kick. My sock-clad foot slams into Thren’s wrist, and he yelps at the impact, dropping the blade.
I grab the sword as it falls—and immediately a thrilling shock of power races up my arm. I gasp with the force of it, but I manage to hold on.
“That’s mine,” snarls Thren. “You won’t be able to use it properly unless you—”
“Unless I kill you? So it is Axidor then. Thank you for the confirmation.” I switch my hold on the sword and ram it deep into his chest, driving him backward to the wall and pinning him there.
“You tried to kill me,” I tell him. “This is what you deserve.”
I watch the frenzy in his eyes fade to vacancy, watch his head slump and his limbs go limp.
His death is unfortunate, but in addition to trying to kill me, he represented a loose end. He could have betrayed the plot to the King. It’s better that he has been silenced.
I yank the weapon out of his chest, and his body tumbles to the floor. Grimacing, I step away from the pooling blood to inspect the sword, feeling the quiver of its power. It’s a simple, streamlined weapon, plain silver with a leather-wrapped hilt.
Experimentally I place my palm against the tip of the blade and push.
Instead of going through my hand, the sword slides into itself like a telescope and shrinks down until it’s the size of a silver pin, easily tucked away out of sight.
“Fuck, that’s incredible,” I mutter. I fumble with the silver pin, tweaking and pushing, trying to locate the trigger point for the size-changing mechanism—a truly masterful blend of science and magic. Finally, when I twist the head of the pin, the sword springs to its full length again.
When it’s at full-size, there’s a notch where the crosspiece meets the base of the blade, and when I press that spot, a blast of power shoots from the sword-point—a paralytic pulse like the one Thren shot at me.
There’s no doubt about it—this sword is Axidor, crafted for Liacan, an Elvish warrior-priest who was murdered by a mob of humans a few years before the Withdrawal. Anyone can shrink or reveal the sword and use it in battle, but its other magical properties are useless to all except its true owner, who must kill the former owner to fully lay claim to the weapon.
Axidor is the most famous blade in Elvish history, and the most significant to our culture. And I’ve won its allegiance.
If I returned this artifact to the Kin, my father would be proud of me, perhaps for the first time in his life.
After shrinking Axidor again, I insert the gold pin into the spine of Juliette’s leather notebook for safekeeping. Then I survey the contents of the tray on the table. Each vial is labeled, but none of them contain fennisley.
It takes several minutes of hunting through boxes and canisters before I locate a paper packet of dried fennisley, carefully labeled. I unseal the packet and take a sniff of the contents to confirm that it’s the correct herb, with the distinctive musty odor I’ve heard about. Satisfied, I tamp the packet shut again, pressing tightly so the adhesive will stick.
