Annon drew closer. “There is a spirit trapped in the stone. I cannot hear it, but I can sense it.”
“I thought that as well,” Paedrin said, nodding.
Tyrus bent close, looking at the design. “This blade was not forged by the Paracelsus. There are no binding runes. The ancient stone set in the pommel was part of the original design.” He adjusted his grip on the scabbard but did not attempt to draw the blade. The hilt was narrower than the types of guards made by the blacksmiths in Kenatos. The polish had long rubbed off and part of the hilt had tarnished.
“What is it then?” Kiranrao asked curiously.
“This is a Mirrowen blade,” Tyrus answered with a curt nod, handing it back to Paedrin. “It was a gift by the spirits to a Vaettir lord many centuries ago. It’s been handed down during the generations and was brought across the sea when the ships came, escaping the fate of the Vaettir homeland. The stone is a protection against the unworthy handling the powers of the blade. As you no doubt learned, it empowers someone to fly and will help in your natural abilities. This is important, Paedrin, because some of the creatures we’ll face, like the Calcatrix, attack from the air and if you look at them, you will turn to stone. This weapon was designed to help destroy such creatures.”
“I cannot draw the blade from the sheath,” Paedrin said. “I can only use it in the scabbard until the master of the blade draws it. I’ve tried.” He looked at Hettie, for she was the one who had explained the properties to him.
Tyrus turned and faced her.
“It’s true,” Hettie said. “I learned in the temple that only one man can draw the blade. It’s fused solid otherwise. It must be given freely or taken from the one defeated in battle.”
“Cruw Reon,” Tyrus answered. “The traitor of Shatalin.”
“The man standing right next to you may be the one who can draw it,” Hettie finished, holding her hand toward Shion, the Quiet Kishion.
Paedrin stared at him, saw the look of amused surprise flicker momentarily on his scarred face.
“Is my name Cruw Reon, Tyrus?” he asked in a soft voice.
“That cannot be,” Tyrus answered. “I learned of Cruw Reon from Master Shivu and he lived a generation ago. You cannot be him. But if the blade passes from master to master through defeat, you may have the right to unsheathe it. Draw the blade and we shall see.”
“Or not,” Kiranrao suggested. “Especially if we all go blind.”
Tyrus handed the scabbard to the Kishion, who studied its length as if it were some unnatural, disgusting thing. Phae watched him intently, her eyes drawn.
“Unless you all have a deep fondness for ravaging pain,” Paedrin said dryly, “I would recommend shutting your eyes before he draws it.”
They did, except for the Quiet Kishion and Paedrin himself. The Kishion stared at the weapon, some dark emotion crossing his face. Frustration? Worry? The man was always so silent. Had he discovered a way to tame his emotions? Perhaps he could teach Paedrin how.
The two of them looked at each other a moment, the Kishion inquisitive.
“It hurt worse than any pain I have ever experienced,” Paedrin offered calmly. “Even when you broke my arm. But the pain brought insights. It also brought new abilities I did not have before. Truly pain is a teacher. Perhaps the origin of that saying was Shatalin.”
“Perhaps,” the Kishion answered. Gripping the pommel firmly, he stared at the scabbard, studying the markings on it. Most averted their faces, not wanting to be stung by the blade’s painful magic. Phae clutched her father’s arm, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Gripping the scabbard tightly, the Kishion slid the blade free of its sheath in a fluid motion. It loosened without difficulty. The orb fastened to the hilt began to glow, making Paedrin wince in anticipation, but not painfully bright as it had before. He saw looks of fear on the faces of several of the women and Annon.
Paedrin squinted and then relaxed. “You truly are the master of the blade. It did not blind as it did before.” The others looked up nervously, seeing the stone in the hilt glowing softly.
“I have no memory of this blade or that name,” he announced coolly. “That part of me is lost until we find Poisonwell. The blade is yours, Paedrin. I give it to you freely.”
Despite being a constant reminder that there was one man in the world that Paedrin could not defeat, he was starting to like the Kishion fellow.
The attackers came at midnight with smoking torches.
Tyrus’s small band was expecting them.
“I thought that as well,” Paedrin said, nodding.
Tyrus bent close, looking at the design. “This blade was not forged by the Paracelsus. There are no binding runes. The ancient stone set in the pommel was part of the original design.” He adjusted his grip on the scabbard but did not attempt to draw the blade. The hilt was narrower than the types of guards made by the blacksmiths in Kenatos. The polish had long rubbed off and part of the hilt had tarnished.
“What is it then?” Kiranrao asked curiously.
“This is a Mirrowen blade,” Tyrus answered with a curt nod, handing it back to Paedrin. “It was a gift by the spirits to a Vaettir lord many centuries ago. It’s been handed down during the generations and was brought across the sea when the ships came, escaping the fate of the Vaettir homeland. The stone is a protection against the unworthy handling the powers of the blade. As you no doubt learned, it empowers someone to fly and will help in your natural abilities. This is important, Paedrin, because some of the creatures we’ll face, like the Calcatrix, attack from the air and if you look at them, you will turn to stone. This weapon was designed to help destroy such creatures.”
“I cannot draw the blade from the sheath,” Paedrin said. “I can only use it in the scabbard until the master of the blade draws it. I’ve tried.” He looked at Hettie, for she was the one who had explained the properties to him.
Tyrus turned and faced her.
“It’s true,” Hettie said. “I learned in the temple that only one man can draw the blade. It’s fused solid otherwise. It must be given freely or taken from the one defeated in battle.”
“Cruw Reon,” Tyrus answered. “The traitor of Shatalin.”
“The man standing right next to you may be the one who can draw it,” Hettie finished, holding her hand toward Shion, the Quiet Kishion.
Paedrin stared at him, saw the look of amused surprise flicker momentarily on his scarred face.
“Is my name Cruw Reon, Tyrus?” he asked in a soft voice.
“That cannot be,” Tyrus answered. “I learned of Cruw Reon from Master Shivu and he lived a generation ago. You cannot be him. But if the blade passes from master to master through defeat, you may have the right to unsheathe it. Draw the blade and we shall see.”
“Or not,” Kiranrao suggested. “Especially if we all go blind.”
Tyrus handed the scabbard to the Kishion, who studied its length as if it were some unnatural, disgusting thing. Phae watched him intently, her eyes drawn.
“Unless you all have a deep fondness for ravaging pain,” Paedrin said dryly, “I would recommend shutting your eyes before he draws it.”
They did, except for the Quiet Kishion and Paedrin himself. The Kishion stared at the weapon, some dark emotion crossing his face. Frustration? Worry? The man was always so silent. Had he discovered a way to tame his emotions? Perhaps he could teach Paedrin how.
The two of them looked at each other a moment, the Kishion inquisitive.
“It hurt worse than any pain I have ever experienced,” Paedrin offered calmly. “Even when you broke my arm. But the pain brought insights. It also brought new abilities I did not have before. Truly pain is a teacher. Perhaps the origin of that saying was Shatalin.”
“Perhaps,” the Kishion answered. Gripping the pommel firmly, he stared at the scabbard, studying the markings on it. Most averted their faces, not wanting to be stung by the blade’s painful magic. Phae clutched her father’s arm, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.
Gripping the scabbard tightly, the Kishion slid the blade free of its sheath in a fluid motion. It loosened without difficulty. The orb fastened to the hilt began to glow, making Paedrin wince in anticipation, but not painfully bright as it had before. He saw looks of fear on the faces of several of the women and Annon.
Paedrin squinted and then relaxed. “You truly are the master of the blade. It did not blind as it did before.” The others looked up nervously, seeing the stone in the hilt glowing softly.
“I have no memory of this blade or that name,” he announced coolly. “That part of me is lost until we find Poisonwell. The blade is yours, Paedrin. I give it to you freely.”
Despite being a constant reminder that there was one man in the world that Paedrin could not defeat, he was starting to like the Kishion fellow.
The attackers came at midnight with smoking torches.
Tyrus’s small band was expecting them.
