“I didn’t get that last part,” Flent said, scratching his head. “What was that?”
The blue-eyed Shae shrugged. “Keneen do may, keneen do ro. Until they are ready then. Until your calling here is complete.” He stooped slightly to look face-to-face with Flent. “I give you this weapon, Flent Shago, that you may protect the Heir of Quicksilver and all his family, his friends, and especially his queen. If you accept this charge, its magic will serve only you. Its magic will destroy those barriers to your duty. Only do not use it in such a way against another living thing. No tree, no grove, no man or Shae or Drugaen either. If you do, the magic will fail. Do you accept it?”
Flent stared at the man’s eyes, a rich sky-blue color. “I do swear it, upon my…”
The Shae smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “An ‘aye’ will do, Flent. It is enough. The weapon is yours.” He thrust the war axe into Flent’s hands. The jolt of its magic sent trembles of gooseflesh up his arms. Something…alive…in the weapon. Something that could think. He stared at it, the shimmer of the blade, the wreath-like runes sculpting its inner stock.
“It is time, Jaerod. I will send you there.”
Jaerod looked down at Flent. “You won’t see me when we get there, but I will be near you until we enter the city. Find Thealos. Protect him until he’s himself again. It will take…time.”
“Aye,” Flent said, nodding gruffly. He clenched the axe haft, savoring the bulk of it, the heft of it. He stared across the open moors at the smoke billowing from Landmoor.
“Is that where we’re…?”
The blinding light overpowered him again. It came from the glassy orb held by the Shae, but it overwhelmed him to look at it. The swell of magic jumbled and jostled him. He staggered and went down, striking his hand against paving stones. Looking up, he knelt before a gatehouse, the iron portcullis wedged firmly down in the tooth-grooves. Jaerod was not there, but he felt a prickle across the back of his neck, as if someone had teased him with a feather.
“Hold there!”
“How in Hate did he get down…”
“Who are you! Is it a Drugaen?”
Soldiers roamed the upper battlement walls, spilling murmurs and choking the air with their garbled talk. There were easily a hundred soldiers, maybe more. All staring at him as if he were nothing but a stool left alone amongst the tables.
“Now,” Jaerod whispered.
Flent stared at the portcullis and knew what he needed to do. The weapon spoke to him, revealing the right way to grip it, to swing it, to let it fly loose. He brought it up with both hands, propping it against his chest as he took a deep breath.
“Take him down! Bring him down!”
Crossbow bolts hissed and struck around him, clattering and breaking as they rained down, but missed him. He raised the weapon high over his head, feeling it draw in magic in a flood of warmth and prickling pleasure. Shouts of warning, cries of alarm, split the air. He swept the blade around in three full circles and let go.
The Silvan weapon went end over end, pinwheeling perfectly, humming against the thunderclaps of crossbows and spears. It struck the barricade of iron and woodworks, letting off a clap that deafened him. The earth jolted with the impact of it, stones rattled loose and plummeted. Soldiers stumbled and fell. Flent stared, his jaw slack.
The southern doors of the city had shattered.
A pang of watchfulness flicked through him as a whir resounded in his ears. On instinct, he held up his hand and the war axe came back to him like a dove.
The rush of magic left him and he sagged to his knees for a moment, the tugs and ripples of it washing through him. Then mounting back to his feet, he marched through the inner gates of Landmoor as war trumpets sounded from the valley lowlands behind him. He paused, disoriented, and whirled around.
“What in Achrolese’s…”
It was the Shae army.
*
Thealos entered the blinding blue warding and the chamber of the Silverkin. Again he was struck by a feeling of absolute peace and an awareness of the filthiness of his clothes, his blood-spattered weapon. He sheathed the blade as he crossed to the center of the room, noticing once more that the blue gems, serving as the chamber’s only lights, did not leave shadows on the floor. The Silvan magic whispered hungrily to him.
–Claim me–
As had happened before, stepping into the bowl of the inner room caused a shimmering shaft of light to erupt from the center of the floor. He licked his lips, wondering if he would receive another Foretelling. His answer came as fast as the thought had.
The voice whispered to him from the center of the rotunda.
“Son of Quicksilver, welcome. Follower of the Way of Ice and Shadows, greetings. Keeper of the Oath magic. Are you ready to claim the magic of the Silverkin?”
A chill ran through Thealos’ body. He dropped into the kneeling position that Jaerod had taught him, the position required to learn the Nine Oaths. The lives of the wellspring murmured soothingly.