Varick drew a deep breath. “I’ve tried sending men to talk to her, but so far they’ve been unsuccessful. At this point, if the Tribunal’s High Ashishin did send her, and you kill her, they’ll just send someone else, someone worse. Maybe Pathfinders or even a full Raijin. It won’t be like last time.”
Ryne shrugged. “Then I’ll pray for Ilumni to show mercy on their souls like the others.”
“Listen to yourself, Ryne. Killing won’t stop them hunting you like it did in the past. It’s not that simple anymore. They won’t grant you a third pardon. No matter how many battles against the shade we win.” Varick scowled and paced to the table with its maps of Ostania showing military positions.
Ryne strode to the front of the tent. Unlike before, he didn’t need to stoop. Outside, a few feet from the entrance, Sakari sat on a crate, staring at the thousands of white canvas spread below the Vallum of Light. Sunlight glared from the towering, ever-shining wall in a near blinding effect.
“Death’s always simple, Varick. We spend our entire lives dying.”
Varick snorted. “Easy for you to say. Try telling that to the mothers who watch their children get slaughtered in these forsaken wars.”
Ryne turned back to Varick, crossed the distance to the table, and pointed to the locations listing the shadeling army’s last known positions. “Exactly why I refuse to go to the High Ashishin. I’m more important here than I ever will be answering questions about a power I don’t even understand. I’m needed here, at the front lines. We both watched too many die, friend. My soul craves for revenge. It sings for battle against the shade. I can no more shun its calling than you can relieve yourself of command and leave your soldiers here. Or leave these people to the shade’s mercy.”
Varick sighed. Even in his intricate silver armor, Ryne could tell his broad shoulders slumped. “Ryne, there’s going to come a time when the High Ashishin will no longer accept no for an answer.” The aged Commander craned his neck and gazed into Ryne’s eyes. “It’s not like you can hide.”
Ryne met the smaller man’s hard eyes with a cold stare of his own. “I’m done hiding. And I’ll kill anyone who gets in my way.”
“Even me?” Varick asked, his voice dangerously quiet.
Ryne refused to answer. The tight lines around the Knight Commander’s eyes softened. Ryne looked away from Varick and pushed the thought of ever having to fight the man from his mind. “I’ll think about it on my way to Felan Mark.”
Knight Commander Varick let out a whoosh. He sifted through the papers on his table and handed Ryne his personal pass-a gold insignia engraved with a sword surrounded by lightning. “Show this to the guards, and only state once that you’re there to see Miss Adler.”
Ryne nodded and strode toward the tent’s entrance. “Varick.”
“Hmm?”
“Warn her. Let her know I decide when I feel like meeting.” Ryne didn’t wait for an answer. He raised the tent’s flap and ducked outside.
Several hours later, Ryne shook his head at Irmina’s annoying persistence. She’d followed him from the Knight Commander’s encampment all the way to Felan Mark. She tried to hide among the mix of Ostanian locals behind him, but her aura stuck out like a bright light.
Ryne linked with Sakari, who milled in the crowd nearby. “Keep an eye on her until I return.” He stepped to the head of the line preparing to enter Felan Mark’s main fort.
“As you wish.”
Ryne broke the link.
“Sir, do you have business here?” asked one of the four scarlet armored Dagodin guards with his neck craned to peer into Ryne’s face.
“Yes.” Ryne produced the pass for the guard’s inspection. “I’m here to see Miss Adler.”
The guard eyed Ryne’s leather armor and his sword suspiciously. After a moment, he said, “Follow the long hall. Don’t touch your weapons as you walk and you’ll be fine. Someone will meet you once you’ve passed inspection inside.”
Ryne nodded, and the guardsman signaled behind him with his silver spear. The soft clink of well-oiled metal gears churned within the armory’s thick, steel walls. The massive gate slid open with a brisk motion, and the spiked portcullis rose. Ryne entered, and the gate and portcullis slid shut.
Metal walls surrounded him, drab, gray, and featureless. A long, well lit hallway stretched ahead, lamps in metal sconces hanging at measured intervals. The hallway continued as far as he could see. Ryne made sure to keep his hands away from his sword as he strode forward.
Half an hour and a few twisting halls later, Ryne stood at a bladesmith’s shop within the armory. In front of him stood a short, gray-haired woman, lines creasing her forehead, nose, and beneath her eyes. The woman’s young student, a girl with smooth, pale skin and long blonde hair, cast nervous glances in Ryne’s direction. A few feet from them, a bulky smith wearing a thick apron poured molten silversteel into a cast. Ryne opened his mouth.
“Shh,” the wrinkle faced woman said. She gestured to the girl. “Close your eyes, Millie. Feel the Mater flowing within the metal-the elements that make everything what it is.” Her voice had become a hypnotic drone. “Seek each individual essence of Mater as they form the solid blade. You need to find the light among those essences. When you do, guide it, help it to flow apart.”
Ryne searched both the teacher’s and the student’s face for any kind of strain he would have felt. The goading power, the struggle for control, the emotional battle he experienced when he touched Mater. In their faces, he saw none. The same as he noted with most Granadian Matii he met.
The bladesmith held the cast steady, and the diminutive, old woman’s voice murmured like a gurgling brook in the background. His focus fixed on the mold, Ryne lost himself in the teacher’s voice. The liquid metal’s acrid smell hung so strong he could taste it.
The teacher’s soft monotone continued. “Just as the Mater is about to complete the weapon’s creation, gently guide the light you separated back into it. That will complete the imbuing.”
Ryne found the calm pool in the center of his being. He opened his Matersense, his bloodlust a distant buzz he easily ignored. Essences around him and within the molten steel bloomed. They swept about the room in sharp-edged transparent swirls, enhancing his vision.
Each essence became vivid despite their transparency. Streams of fire flared, melting the metal and rising in waves, the heat, light, and energy essences all working together. Water and air essences flowed to make up the liquid byproduct and steam. Both the Streams and Flows worked to create the superheated air in the smith’s shop. The liquid began to solidify giving it the element of Forms.
Light in a white luminescence intertwined with everything in intricate patterns. Shade essences filled the void in the shadows cast by flames within the forge and lamps on the walls. They too, a part of the Streams. A flow of light slid away from the whole and formed a thick ball.
“Guide the light into the metal now,” the gray-haired teacher whispered.
The elements of Mater snapped together. As they did, the light rotated and slammed into them. A tiny concussion of air brushed Ryne’s hair from his face. A small section from the ball of light dissipated and joined its origins.
In the mold now sat a shining, silversteel core. Light glowed from it in flickering waves.
Ryne’s eyes widened at the newly imbued metal. It was the first time he’d seen an imbuing. He released his Matersense, and the glow disappeared, the metal appearing as ordinary, highly polished steel.
“Next time, be more gentle, my dear. The light essences will pass into the steel without force. The gentler you are, the stronger the imbuing will be, and the fewer essences you will lose. In turn, the stronger the divya you will have created.”
“Thank you, Miss Adler,” the girl said, her broad smile lighting up her face.