“There is no difference between you and the Divines?”
“Not when it comes to basic principles,” said Argoth.
“Then teach me how to release my Fire to you,” said Nettle.
“That won’t work. To learn that very elementary skill can take a very long time. Weeks. Sometimes months.”
“But Talen sat at the table with River doing just that, opening and closing his doors, Fire pouring off him.”
“Talen is not what he seems,” said Argoth. “Besides, even if I could teach you in a matter of hours it would be too late. It takes too long to transfer the quantity I need.”
Nettle pointed at a pine rod lying in the case. “That’s a filtering rod, isn’t it?”
“It is,” said Argoth. “Something from before.” He’d kept all the old implements around to remind him of those former days, to remind him what he was so that he could never forget how the Order had changed him.
“Do you know how to use it?”
“It has been a very long time but yes I know how.”
“Then take the Fire from me.”
“Son,” Argoth said. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Do I have enough Fire to supply your need?”
“Yes, but that’s not-”
“Then use it, Da.”
He was so brash. He had gotten his clan wrists this year, but he was still a boy. “Nettle, I swore never to take Fire again. Only to receive it from those who freely give. If I take your Fire, you will be changed. When you forcibly take Fire, you cannot avoid also taking portions of the person’s soul. You take their memories. You take the force that controls the very nature of their bodies.”
He continued, “This is why many who go to the temple to make an offering claim to feel as if they’ve lost something. But it is not an effect of being touched by holiness as is claimed. It is the effect of having your Fire ripped from you. The Divines are no better than soul-eaters-both are thieves. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Do you know why some die on the altars? When the Divines take a great quantity of Fire, they will simply drain a man until he dies. Because if they were to stop short, we’d all see the effects of someone having so very much of their soul leached away into the rod. You might become a drooling invalid or a wild man to be roped and chained. You might lose all memory of us. No one can predict the full effects of taking the quantity of Fire I need. It cannot be reversed. At least, none know that lore.”
“But we can predict the effects if I don’t, can’t we?”
Argoth said nothing. Such courage and trust-Nettle did not know what he was saying. Argoth had seen that ardent desire so many times in the eyes of youth going off to their first battle. None of them knew the sacrifice that lay ahead.
“Da,” he said. He held up his wrists with their tattoos. “Do you, even you, mock me?”
“No.”
“But you do. Every time you allow others to stand in my place on the patrols. Every time you assign your men to shelter me.”
“I don’t want to risk you unnecessarily.”
“Life is risk,” said Nettle. “I am now a man of our clan, a man of my father’s house. And I want to protect my sisters. My mother. I want to protect my friends. Would you prevent me? Would you tell me I am not worthy?”
“Son, you’re worthy.” He was more than worthy. He was precious. He was a prize that Argoth did not want to part with.
“Then pick me up, Father. Let me be your weapon. Let me be your sword.”
Argoth looked at Nettle, the desire burning in his eyes. Such a son!
“And if this takes part of my soul,” Nettle continued, “we will count it no less an honor than if I had lost an arm or a leg in battle.”
“I can’t,” said Argoth.
“If you did, would you be able to save Mother? Would you be able to save Serenity and Grace? Little Joy?”
If he took the Fire, he could spring the Skir Master’s trap. The odds were long, but there was the smallest of chances. “There’s no guarantee.”
“There are never any guarantees, Da.”
This would put his family at such great risk. But they were already at risk. They were already targets. He could kill them all tonight. Or he could fight and try to save them. If he failed, their deaths would not be easy. But if he succeeded. If he succeeded, he would save not only his family but the lives of many others. The Divines stole so much. They made so many people suffer. And Serah did have a chance to escape. Someone would surely follow her. But it wouldn’t be a dreadman.
He looked down at Nettle. He didn’t have to draw all his Fire. He didn’t have to kill him. He knew of no lore that could return the soul once it had been taken. They’d hoped such things would be contained in the Book of Hismayas. But none had been able to open that book. And Argoth could not make this decision based on a wild hope. If Nettle sacrificed himself, there would be no restoration. Argoth found tears in his eyes. Nettle reminded him so much of Ummon, his son of so long ago. His son who had ridden out and never come back. His son who he had risked unnecessarily. He wished this crisis had come upon them six months later. By then he would have brought Nettle into the Order, and Nettle would have been able to give him his Fire. But he knew that was a lie. He wouldn’t have brought Nettle into the Order. He’d pushed the testing off for more than two years now. He would have waited another year. They would have been in the same position they were now.
“Pick me up, Father. Let me stand at your side. Let me be a man and fight for what is ours.”
Yes, Argoth thought. Let us fight. Let us not falter in the moment of crisis. The Divines were no better than soul-eaters. And was he not a Root of the Order of Hismayas? An Order established by the Creators themselves to bring humankind back into the light. To restore that which was lost.
He looked at his son with new eyes.
“I will pick you up,” said Argoth. “You will stand at my side. And together we shall smite the enemy.” And if they died, then they would die with honor.
He reached out and took his boy in his arms and hugged him tightly, hugged him for what would be the very last time because if he did survive, if he came back from this battle, the Nettle he knew would be gone.
Argoth left Nettle in the secret room and went to the kitchen and put a pot of water over the fire to boil. He listened to the sounds of his family sleeping upstairs and a memory of Nettle as a little boy pushed its way into his mind. He and Serah stood to the side of the kitchen window spying on Nettle playing with Grace and Joy. Each child had a number of Nettle’s new, brightly painted wooden animals. The animals mustered a defense against raiders in the flower pots. When the waves of Bone Faces had all been tromped, gnashed, and thrown in the privy, Nettle’s pig said, “Want to roll in the mud?”
“A triumph celebration,” said Grace’s horse. Soon all the bright animals and the children were covered with mud. The children had played until dark fell, and Argoth and Serah had been content just to watch.
Tonight that little boy had shown his mettle. And Argoth, for all intents and purposes, was going to have to kill him.
Kill his own son.
But maybe not forever. His heart swelled within him, and then the water began to steam. He swung the pot off the fire. He poured steaming water into a teapot, brought a pitcher for himself, fetched a cheesecloth teabag, and returned to the hidden cellar. He was going to have to make a wizardsmeet tea.
A fire burned in the hearth of the underground room. Nettle stood at the case examining a rough necklace.
“That is your great-great-great-grandfather’s weave,” said Argoth. “A thrall that we will use upon the Skir Master.”