“The fire wing is second only to the black wing in size,” Rignar said. “And there are said to be hardly any of those left.”
Tolveg said nothing, moving to the ledge to peer down at the drifting clouds. They had reached a comparatively broad stretch of track, even featuring a few steps cut into the stone but no wall that might prevent a climber from coming perilously close to a sheer drop.
“Tolveg,” Shamil cautioned, seeing the tip of the northman’s boot protrude over the edge, scattering gravel into the void.
“That’s not my name,” the blond warrior said in a soft voice. He raised his head as Shamil took a step towards him. He was gratified to see the man’s terror had disappeared, his face now wearing a serene smile as his long locks trailed in the wind. “They took it from me, you see, the day they scourged me.” His hand half rose towards his neck in an echo of his habitual gesture, then paused and fell to his side. “It’s the law, the deserved fate of one who murders a kinsman. Tolveg Clearwater died, and in his place was Blood-Mad, murderer of uncles, worthy of only spit and curses.”
Seeing Tolveg’s other boot scrape towards the edge, Shamil took another tentative step forward. “I doubt names matter much in the Eyrie,” he said, extending a hand.
“They seemed to think I wanted to do it,” Tolveg went on, voice sombre with puzzled recollection. “That I somehow lusted for my uncle’s death, out of . . . envy, perhaps? But why? Why would they think that?”
“When we become sentinels, you’ll prove them wrong.” Shamil took another step, gauging the distance between them at little over three yards, too far to leap and catch him in time.
“But I had to.” Tolveg’s gaze froze Shamil in midstep, the serenity abruptly replaced by a desperate need for understanding. “I begged him to stop. I begged him to turn the ship back. ‘Have we not witnessed wonders enough, Uncle? Is our hold not crammed with treasure? But now it is always dark and the seas we sail bare of all save ice. Truly we have reached the limit of the world.’ But turn back he wouldn’t. He was well into his madness by then, star-cursed my people call it, a soul lost to the lure of endless discovery. We sailed further north than any ship in all the sagas, and it still wasn’t enough.”
He sighed, and the desperation in his face faded into sorrowful acceptance. “He gave me this the day we set off.” Tolveg’s hands moved to the buckle of his sword belt, unclasping it from his hips. “Alken-Haft, a blade fit for only the hand of a hero, or so he said.” Tolveg smiled as he hefted the sword and looked into Shamil’s eyes. “And I can see that this is no place for cowards.”
He threw the sword at Shamil, hard enough to force him to retreat a step so he could catch it, stopping the rune-etched pommel an inch from his nose. When Shamil lowered it, Tolveg was gone.
3. The Eyrie
“You could have saved him.”
Rignar glanced briefly at Shamil’s stern, accusing visage before turning away, huddling into his cloak. “Leave it be, lad,” he muttered.
The three of them had spent the hours until nightfall climbing in silence, eventually finding a resting place at the foot of a stone ladder cut into a sheer cliff some fifty feet high, too high and too narrow to scale in darkness. Throughout the climb Shamil had kept to the rear, hoping the mage could feel his eyes boring into the back of his skull. Shamil had seen death before, including the deaths of friends, for the Doctrinate’s lessons held many dangers, but never had he witnessed a man casting his own life away, especially when such a waste could have been prevented.
“The pendant you carry has power,” Shamil persisted. “You have power. You could have stopped his fall . . .”
“Some men are fated to die young,” Rignar cut in, voice dull with fatigue. “Saving him wouldn’t have changed that. Fear followed him like the stink that follows a drunkard, the fear that had cracked his mind when he murdered his uncle, the kind of fear that never fades. Better he spare others the cowardice that would surely have claimed him in battle.”
“What do you know of battle?”
“More than you, my young friend. Since I’ve actually seen a few.” Rignar shifted, letting out an irritated groan. “Best get some sleep. I’ve a sense tomorrow will be a hard trial for all of us.”
But Shamil’s mind was too full of Tolveg’s serene smile to allow the comfort of sleep. He sat with his back against the first step, the northman’s sword propped between his knees. He turned it continually, watching the light of the quarter moon play on the runes engraved on the pommel. There were more on the blade itself, a remarkable thing of beauty that demanded admiration, bright and keen, the edge possessing the slight irregularity that came from the grind of a whetstone over many years. It bore only a few scratches, leaving the symbols that marked it intact, not that he could read them.
“It’ll be a battle ode to one of their many spirit gods.”
Lyvia gathered her cloak about her as she sat up, the keenness of her eyes indicating a similar inability to sleep.
“Can you read it?” he asked, holding out the sword.
She shook her head, making no move to take the weapon. “No, but I know a little of the northmen’s customs, one of which holds that touching another warrior’s sword invites a dire curse.”
“It’s not mine.”
“It is now. Tolveg’s last act was to gift it to you, and I’m sure he had good reason, however cracked his mind might have been.”
They both started as Rignar let out a sharp exhalation and shuddered in his sleep. Checking his face, Shamil saw that Rignar’s eyes remained closed, but his features were drawn into a mask of deep distress. Shamil decided that the mage’s dreams must be terrible indeed to visit him with so much pain and terror. Rignar’s lips moved in a tremulous whisper, the words mostly gibberish but for a few sentences rendered near meaningless by archaic phrasing.
“. . . I beg of thee . . .” the mage whimpered, face bunching in fresh alarm. “. . . Hearken to thine heart . . . thou hast suffered enough . . .”
Gradually, the words faded away, and Rignar calmed, his features slackening until snores replaced fearful whispers.
“He’s been like this every night,” Lyvia said. “Once Tolveg finally stopped talking and fell to slumber. You slept through it all.”
“But you didn’t.”
She shrugged, looking away, her face becoming guarded. “I sleep little.”
“You called him a Revenantist.” Shamil looked again at Rignar’s snoring features, thinking how unremarkable a figure he would have been but for the pendant he wore. “What is that?”
“A cult, popular in my city until recently.” She angled her head, studying Rignar. “I doubt he’s truly one of them, though. No fanatic was ever so cynical.”
“This cult worshipped Sharrow-Met?”
“In a way. Their founder claimed to have received a vision of the redeemed Wraith Queen wandering the earth in revenant form, neither dead nor alive, in perpetual expectation of the day she’ll be needed. ‘When the Voice is once again heard in the Treaty Realms, the Wraith Queen will forsake her endless wandering and rise to be our salvation once more.’
“This self-proclaimed visionary made himself quite powerful for a time, rich too, until one of his more zealous adherents decided he was in fact a fraud and put a hefty dose of poison in his wine. The cult splintered in the aftermath, lingering on in factions that seem more interested in fighting each other than proclaiming Sharrow-Met’s imminent return.”