He took a porcelain crock on the shelf and placed it on the table. He unstopped the crock, removed a pinch of the small wizardsmeet leaves, measured a small amount into the cup of his palm, then put the rest back.
“Wizardsmeet has a stench that makes many gag. And not only does it smell but it will leave a taste in your mouth that will take a day to fade. But you need this, for your first response will be to fight me.”
Nettle picked up the cup. “How old are you?”
“I am in my ninety-sixth year,” said Argoth.
Nettle’s mouth hung open in shock.
“Before I joined the Order, I did what the Divines do-consumed Fire harvested from others to renew my body and extend my days. I was eighty when I joined the Order and swore to live by the Fire I possessed or that which was freely given.”
“Then I have brothers who could be my father.”
“No,” said Argoth, and he did not expect it to hurt so much to remember. “They were all murdered. But that’s another story.” He motioned at the cup. “It doesn’t need to steep long. You can drink it now.”
Nettle drank it with a grimace. Then he handed the cup back. It would take a few minutes for the herb to work.
Argoth motioned for Nettle to take the other end of the table, and they moved it close to the hearth. “Take off your tunic, then lie here.” He went to the case and retrieved the draw collar, tongue, filtering rod, and stomach. “You’re going to feel a relaxing comfort come upon you. Next, you’ll find you can’t move, not without great effort. Do not panic.”
Arogth laid the harvesting weaves onto the table beside Nettle. He covered Nettle’s lower torso with his tunic, leaving his chest bared. Argoth picked up the draw collar. “Do you know why weaves are so often made of gold?”
“Because it’s a noble metal?”
“Yes, but why is it noble?”
Nettle shrugged.
“You can make a fine, powerful weave out of willow. In fact, in some ways it’s better than gold, but only if the branches are still green. The moment the wood cures, it leaks, sometimes like a sieve. Gold, on the other hand, holds it tight as a drum. Gold can also be wrought into many shapes. You can pattern a weave with gold wire that’s impossible with plant materials or harder metals. Now I want you to look at this.” He held up the collar. “Such things are woven by Kains. And they would have you believe only they possess the secrets. But you see here that it is a lie.”
He paused. This was the moment where his words became deeds. One last time he considered giving up and killing them all with a quick poison. But he looked at Nettle again. He thought about the girls and their eventual children. He thought upon grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Sometimes the choices of one father or mother affected generations. Nettle’s might be the sacrifice that opened the way to thousands throwing off the yokes of the Divines.
And if they failed?
Then they did so in struggle, not by choice.
“You,” said Argoth, “are a lodestar shining in our bright heaven.” He loved him, loved him with all his heart.
He lifted Nettle’s head and placed the collar around his neck. Into a lock on the collar he fitted the end of the rod of pine.
“The collar is woven to draw the Fire forth. The rod will catch your soul. But we shall not burn it as the Divines do. No, we shall keep it as the testament of your sacrifice. We shall keep it in hopes of restoring you one day.”
He stroked Nettle’s hair. “Can you move your arm?”
Nettle just looked up at him. The wizardsmeet was taking effect.
“In reality any wood might do as a filter. But it was found long ago that pine held on to soul better than any other wood. Leave the bark on, and it holds it all the tighter. But bark can easily be chipped away. That is why this rod has been stripped. I will not suffer one particle of you to be lost.”
Argoth picked up the tongue. He inserted one end into the pine rod, the other fitted into the stomach, a weave of gold, shaped like a grip.
Collar, filter, tongue, stomach. All was ready. It was said that those who stole Fire opened themselves up to invisible influences from the unseen world. Evil skir or even Regret himself. Perhaps what he did was an evil, but the cause was just.
“The collar will grow cold,” he said. “Very cold. Can you blink?”
Nettle did nothing at first, but then he blinked once very slowly.
“I’m going to begin,” said Argoth. “We should have heated blankets, but that cannot be helped. I’ll just have to keep the hearth stoked.”
He hesitated. Nettle looked up at him with such serenity. He knew it was from the wizardsmeet, but the trust in his gaze was unmistakable. “I’m proud of you, son. I will not disappoint you.”
He took a breath, and the whole world seemed to hang on that moment, then he began to sing the ancient forms.
After a time a grayness seeped into the collar like a thin wash of paint. Argoth continued singing, and the grayness slowly darkened and turned black.
Minutes sped by and the blackness entered the filter and slowly rose up toward the stomach.
Without tasting a great quantity of Fire, there was no way to tell if it was polluted with soul. But this unused filter had been cut from a thick, long branch. It was three feet long, more than enough for the souls of a dozen men.
Soon Argoth was sweating with the effort, but he continued to sing and pull. Water condensed on the collar and rod, then the tongue. He stopped to build up the fire, but the water did not evaporate. Despite his efforts, a fine frost began to form along the collar.
He stoked the fire until the hearth could not contain it. An hour passed. He was drenched with sweat, his voice hoarse. He stopped to take a long drink.
Argoth smoothed Nettle’s hair back. Tears sprang to his eyes again, tears full of sorrow and pride. “We’re halfway there, son. You’re doing fine.” He raised the pitcher for another drink, then set it down, and continued.
He lost track of time. The Fire flowed up the rod into the stomach. He estimated what he was taking from Nettle-not mere days, but years. The frost spread from collar to the rod, then extended up Nettle’s neck and down his chest. He took off his tunic and spread it over Nettle’s chest, hoping to warm him. Then began again.
How much would he need? He had to quicken the thrall. He needed great quantities himself. He pulled and felt the stomach fill.
Nettle blinked.
Argoth looked down at his son’s face. Nettle’s eyes brimmed. Tears ran down the side of his face. Argoth pulled back his tunic and touched the collar. The tip of his finger froze to it.
He winced. So much. Too much. The frosted skin would die and leave a scar. He was sorry, so sorry, but he couldn’t stop yet; he didn’t have enough. “Just a little more,” he said and began to sing again.
A soft moan escaped Nettle’s lips. He turned his head, pain wrenching his face. Then he raised his hand, the one with the clan wrist, and grasped the filtering rod.
The wizardsmeet was wearing off.
Argoth felt Nettle’s wrist and sought to gauge how much Fire was left in his boy.
Enough to continue, but less than he’d thought. He’d drained so many of Nettle’s days away. But if he didn’t get enough the weave would never quicken and it would all be for naught. He saw the pleading in his son’s eyes.
“Courage,” he said. He could not stop now. To do so would be to waste all that Nettle had given. He gently pried Nettle’s fingers off the rod, and began again to sing.
Nettle tensed; his back arched.
Argoth chanted, grief welling up inside him. Perhaps they should have just run, the whole family. But he ground that idea into the dirt like he would a spider. He’d made his decision. He would see it through. Second-guessing, questioning, would only poison his resolve.