That One Time I Went on a Quest
We All Have Lost

Kathanhiel slumps onto the bed, sheathing Kaishen. As soon as she lets it go her shoulders slump inward like those of a boneless doll. ‘Make us some tea, Kastor.’

I go to the cabinet and look inside. Under two shelves of decorative plates (featuring kittens dressed up in suits of armour, mostly) are four snuffboxes lined up in a neat row. One of them bears Lord Maarakir’s seal; inside are needle-thin green leaves that smell like forest pines.

While I hunt for the elusive kettle, Rukiel breaks the silence. ‘I had two sons in the Phalanx, twins. Neither were any good at soldiering – their constitution…but their hearts were good. Heart is what counts. One went to our hearth in the evergreen during Elisaad’s time, the other…just last month. His bolt got tangled up with a…and it dragged him fifty feet up. A shorter fall he would’ve lived; longer he wouldn’t have had to suffer. He lived for three days in the infirmary. I saw him but once; I had to be on the battlement, tend to the siege…they tell me he asked for me before…before…and now I can’t say his name. I can’t say either of their names.’

‘They’ll replace peace at the hearth,’ Tamara says softly, ‘and they’ll wait for their father to come home.’

‘My home is the Phalanx. So are theirs.’ With every word Rukiel’s voice hardens. ‘My pride for them denies me the tears I crave, but so what? Grief is not a shackle, but a well of light. We bask in it as one would bask in the sun.’ He points at Kathanhiel with a shaky finger. ‘But grief has you in chains, my lady. It has imprisoned your mind.’

‘Has it now,’ Kathanhiel says.

Tamara looks stern. ‘Enough with the stubbornness. The scouts give us a week before the dragons regroup. During this time I hope you would rouse yourself and lead us as you did before.’

I look up from the tea set. The two of them are crowding around the bed like a pair of interrogators. Kathanhiel doesn’t turn away; she merely crosses her legs and taps Kaishen’s scabbard with one restless finger.

‘So talk to us,’ Tamara says. ‘Let us help you.’

Kathanhiel laughs; a dry, joyless bark.

Rukiel begins, ‘this is no time be a petulant –’

‘You’ve not built enough rapport with me to offer reprimands, Rukiel,’ Kathanhiel says. ‘I am sorry for your loss, but we all have lost.’

The kettle has boiled and there is no time for fancy ceremony. Before everything is properly laid out the silver tray I’m already calling out: ‘My lady, will it be salt or sugar?’

‘Kayran had kept pink salt from the Isles on the lowest shelf, behind the yellow lockbox.’

As I pull out the mill – from exactly where she said it would be – there seem to be eyes drilling into the back of my head.

I carry over the tray and lay it on the bedside table. Kathanhiel picks up her cup and looks surprised as her arm begins to tremble, but before I could start hesitating about whether she needs help, she steadies it on her own. A sip of the tea seems to steel her voice. ‘I shall make myself clear. Rutherford yet lives, the brood driven back but undefeated. Talu yet lives, him and his cultists. Fifty thousand people are wintering without shelter on the Imperial Highway. I’ll not leave these ills unresolved. That is not my nature.’

Tamara says quickly: ‘We’re not accusing you of –’

‘Your concerns are perfectly reasonable,’ Kathanhiel says, ‘but I ask that you leave alone the matter of my personal wellbeing, and have faith in my fortitude.’

Rukiel scowls. ‘You ask for much.’

I speak up again because the aggression in his voice doesn’t deserve to be quietly listened to. ‘Is-is that all you want to say, Master Rukiel?’

His eyes bore into me with the heat of the sun. ‘What?’

‘I…I don’t mean to be rude but…could we not discuss something else?’

All three pairs of eyes are staring; so…dizzy…how long has it been since I last ate?

‘This is a serious matter, Kastor,’ Tamara says. Her tone is completely different when she’s not talking to Kathanhiel. ‘Please refrain from interrupting us.’

Curious. Neither of them realise what they are doing is no better than interrogation. They might as well be grabbing her by the shoulders and yelling snap out of it.

I turn around and pull a face at Kathanhiel. The reception is quite positive; she winks at me, eyes twinkling, then gestures at the two empty tea cups waiting to be filled.

Rukiel’s eyes narrow. ‘Heed us, lady. We only mean well.’

Kathanhiel waits until I’ve put steaming tea in everyone’s hand – my own included – then puts down her own and takes a deep, trembling breath. ‘Now that Kastor is here I wish to discuss with the two of you my plans for the next few days.’ Before Tamara could interject she gives her a look. ‘Our immediate objective is to ready Iborus for a prolonged siege. It is imperative that –’

Rukiel speaks up: ‘We aren’t finished with –’

Kathanhiel ignores him. ‘– that one, we’ve sufficient dry powder to take advantage of Kaishen’s presence, and two, eliminate enough of the brood so that they can no longer overwhelm our defences with sheer numbers. Our objective remains the same: draw the brood against our walls, keep them here while I seek out Rutherford in the Ranges. Now that there is another who can wield the blade of Ush’Ra, we can begin calibrating the Mirrors right away. Kastor, do me a favour.’

‘Yes my lady.’

‘Between now and our departure, I want you to…’ As her hand closes around Kaishen she seems to hesitate. ‘I want you to…take this.’ She shoves the sword, fancy scabbard and all, into my hand. ‘There are twenty-seven Mirrors in Iborus that can channel Kaishen’s fire to…how shall I put it…’

‘The Mirrors have two uses.’ Rukiel speaks up, looking resigned. ’The little giants designed them to emit concentrated light when struck by dragon fire. They’re meant for scattering the brood and igniting dry powder, but without input from the sword of Ush’Ra they’re completely passive and might as well be useless – no dragon would breathe fire on them voluntarily.

‘Consider it training, Kastor,’ Kathanhiel says, giving Rukiel a nod. ‘You already know the required technique. All that remains is practice.’

I do?

Whatever expression I have on my face, she reads it perfectly. ‘Remember, if you desire an effect, you need but ask.’

‘Uh…sure, I guess.’

Kathanhiel smiles, her eyes lingering on Kaishen. Meanwhile, Rukiel and Tamara exchange a confused look that is oddly satisfying to see.

‘One more thing,’ she adds. ‘Forgive me, but might I assume that you do not recall the last few days?’ She pauses only as a matter of courtesy. ‘You have experienced what my master used to call the Scouring, meaning that your body is too weak to keep up with the directive of your mind.’

She stops, jutting her chin out at Rukiel and Tamara, and continuing only after they’ve both sipped their tea and nodded their somewhat coerced approval. ‘This is a common affliction for the wielders of Ush’Ra’s blade. When one loses consciousness, the sword takes over one’s body, and whatever desire that…that fuels it –’ her eyes waver ever so briefly – ‘becomes how one behaves. It is…difficult to explain.’

‘Is it?’ Rukiel interjects, setting his already empty cup on the floor. ‘When the sword has control it’ll make you strike out at everything within reach. Everything and everyone. That’s easy enough to understand.’

‘Kastor is different,’ Kathanhiel says quietly.

‘We don’t know him as you do,’ Tamara says. ‘Master Rukiel and I will watch him during his calibration of the Mirrors. Should there be cause for concern we will not hesitate.’

I look at their faces in turn yet no one would look at mine.

‘Um…so uh…what?’

After five seconds of silence, with her hand covering half her face, Kathanhiel says:

‘Many innocent lives I have taken. Many faces I do not recall. I only wish that it doesn’t happen to you, Kastor. They have leave to kill you if Kaishen takes over your body again.’

A knock on the door; it opens by a timid inch as Kathanhiel’s maid pokes her head in. ‘F-Forgive my intrusion my lady, but this messenger has been waiting for quite a while. She says it’s urgent.’

‘Are we done?’ Kathanhiel glares at Rukiel and Tamara in turn, clearly daring them to say otherwise. They both nod. ‘Then receive the message on my behalf – outside, please. I am in need of rest.’

She’s not kidding. As soon as they bow out of the room Kathanhiel collapses onto the sheets, breathing in wheezing gasps as if her lungs are filled with water. Without thinking about why this makes sense, I shove Kaishen into her hand; she clutches it like one drowning. Within seconds the sickly gurgling disappears, though her chest still heaves far too rapidly.

Trembling and labouring for air, she starts laughing. It sounds so horribly human. ‘This isn’t healthy, is it?’

On the one hand, I’m fairly sure it was Kaishen’s fire that glued my arm back together; on the other, physical wellbeing isn’t what she’s referring to. ‘You hold onto it, my lady. I’ll come back and borrow it for the Mirror stuff when I need to.’

She’s smiling at me again. ‘Thank you for the tea. It was wonderful, as always.’

To cover up the blood rushing to my face I force myself to enunciate. ‘So uh…should I…call the physician?’

She nods. ‘Before that, I must tell you that Oon’Shei is in the mines, mourning, as should we all. I think it would be best if…’

Oon’Shang, heaving that rock onto her wounded back and telling me to get down –

‘I’ll go to him and pay my respects.’

‘Of course you will,’ her smile widens, ‘but first you must eat. My maid will show you the way to the canteen.’

The refinery is a grey monstrosity of stone wedged against the cliffs. Inside, behind two massive cylindrical crushers that churn with laborious thunder, is the entrance to the mines. A steel cabled winch, worked by two giants, is pulling a train of mine carts filled with glistening ore up the steep decline.

As the carts crest the final rise they pull into a looped track with huge claw-like fixtures at the bottom. At the pull of a great lever only a little giant can reach, the entire loop rises up on steel struts and tilts toward the crushers. The cascade of ore and their subsequent decimation under rows of giant metal teeth is so deafening, it puts dragon roars to shame.

Haylis, who has for some reason volunteered to be my guide, yells with her mouth on my ear. ‘We’ll take the last cart down! They tell me Oon’Shei is on the third level.’

‘Why is he here instead of…anywhere else?!’ I yell back.

‘The little giants believe that their souls go to the stone after they die. They’ve dug endless catacombs in the Ranges apparently – in fact, the mining crew says they dug into one earlier today. They’ve been celebrating.’

‘The little giants built this mine too?’

Haylis shoots me a look that says what do you think, idiot?

The inside of the mine cart is wet and slimy with greyish mud. Although her brows couldn’t be more furrowed, Haylis doesn’t complain. In fact, she hasn’t complained at all, about the work, the dirt…especially the dirt.

The carts descend fast enough to beat up a strong gust. There are very few lights down here; torches, all dim and eerily blue-flamed, are sparse and hung up so high they’re no brighter than firebugs. The air is breathlessly humid; water is everywhere: dripping out of the rock, running in streams down the decline, puddling at the bends and hidden pits around the corners…

Couldn’t see my own hands, even as I hold them up to my face. The carts seem to be going in a clockwise spiral. Every once in a while a darker shade of black would open up on the left – probably barren tunnels that have been left alone.

At what feels like the second lap of the spiral, the walls begin to glitter. By their whitish luminescence I could see Haylis pointing ahead. ‘This is all magisite,’ she shouts above the wind. ‘They – I mean we – make dry powder from it.’ She giggles as the mine cart runs straight through a big puddle, sending up a putrid splash. ‘Ironic, right?’

I couldn’t hold back the question any longer. ‘How are you enjoying any of this?!’

‘Would you rather be staring into the sky, waiting for the dragons to come?’

Just as my neck begins to hurt from always twisting one way, the mine carts pull into a sudden stop at what seems to be the nexus point of a tunnel network. Down here the rock faces are so thick with luminous dots it resembles a canvas of stars…if stars were covered in icky slime and made the skin burn.

There’s a sudden white flash in one of the deeper tunnels, followed by a muffled boom. Haylis points to it. ‘Let’s stay away from the working face. Oon’Shei wouldn’t be there; he’d want a quiet spot.’

As we speak, a little giant emerges from the tunnel carrying what looks like a tower shield in one hand and a massive pickaxe in the other. On his back is a basket filled with glittering ore. He looks at us inquisitively, head tilted to one side. After a short performance on the silent bells, courtesy of Haylis, he points to a pitch black tunnel on the left.

We walk, Haylis lighting up one of the blue-flamed torches and taking it along. Within seconds of entering the tunnel all sounds fade, all but the incessant seeping of water from the walls. It’s so very warm down here, and deathly still.

Haylis loops her arm through mine and leans close. ‘I’ve not been this deep before. So quiet.’

She’s shivering. ‘Are you scared?’ I ask.

‘Aren’t you?’

‘It’s just dark and uncomfortable.’

‘You know, you’re a little different,’ she declares. ‘You’re supposed to be scared of everything.’

I could only nod. This suffocating black tunnel, dripping with almost certainly toxic water and silent as a grave, hasn’t left a deep impression, probably because in my head the memory of Kathanhiel kneeling in molten metal and clutching Kaishen to her chest is re-enacting itself, over and over again. Will Oon’Shei be acting the same way?

He would. That’s what it’s like to lose someone you love.

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Wouldn’t know what?’ Haylis asks.

I shake my head. This topic doesn’t make for titillating conversation.

The tunnel turns out to be extremely short; judging by the minimal luminescence, it must’ve been too barren to warrant further digging. After a sharp turn we spot Oon’Shei at the end of the tunnel, kneeling with his hands flat upon the rock. Around him, like the fingers of a withered talon, stands three obelisks carved out of glittering ore.

‘He’s singing to the stone,’ Haylis explains, whispering even though he couldn’t hear us anyway. ‘I don’t really understand the meaning but it has to do with returning what belongs to the earth.’

I hope I’m keeping the panic out of my voice. ‘What do the obelisks mean? What do they do? Why are they here? Did he make them? He did, didn’t he?’

‘Something to do with the giving and taking of life, I think,’ Haylis says. ‘They’re like gravestones, except they’re meant to be broken apart after mourning.’

Oon’Shei turns around and sees us. His shoulders heave in surprise, but after a moment’s consideration he raises a boulder of a hand and waves. ‘He thanks us for coming, and wonders if we want to join him in prayer,’ Haylis says. ‘It would be very rude to refuse.’

We walk forward and put our hands against the wall; it feels slick yet inexplicably warm, like the skin of some hibernating beast.

‘He asks if you saw how she died,’ Haylis says quietly.

On the way down I have pondered a hundred times how to answer this question. There is no way around it; Oon’Shang died because of me and no amount of apologies or subtle manoeuvring could change that. Might as well tell it like it is.

‘She withstood the fire of six Apex candidates for an entire day, and saved my life.’

As Haylis conveys that with the silent bells, Oon’Shei’s arms begin to tremble. A low growl permeates through the rock and into my bones as my teeth begin to vibrate their way out of my gums. He’s screaming; Oon’Shei is screaming, and the earth screams with him.

‘He asks…he asks….’ Haylis looks dismayed. ‘He asks whether your life was worth saving.’

Ah.

It used to be that this feeling of self-loathing would last for days, weeks. It’s different now – I know better. Oon’Shang didn’t die just so I can feel sorry for myself.

‘It was,’ I reply. ‘Because of her I was able to bring Kathanhiel back to Iborus, even though I’m not sure how I did it. That’s something, isn’t it?’

Oon’Shei reaches out, and for a terrifying moment it looked like he was going to hit me – which wouldn’t end well for every single one of my bones – but instead he merely pats me on the back. Staggering, my head encounters the rock face at a reasonable speed as to raise a massive lump.

Haylis laughs softly. ‘He says he saw you on carrying Kathanhiel and the sword of Ush’Ra, walking toward our walls. He says he gleaned in you no evil, only righteousness.’

That sounds like a compliment I don’t deserve. ‘I…I never thought I was evil, to be honest.’

For the next ten minutes we stand in silence, with our hands against the stone – silence from only my perspective, of course; Oon’Shei never stops singing, and as his voice pass into the stone and into my bones, there comes wayward tears. I look over and see the same in Haylis’ eyes. Did the stone pass into us his sorrow, or did it well up from within?

At the conclusion of our vigil, Oon’Shei bids us stand back. With solemn care he wraps his hands around each of the obelisks and breaks them with the sheer strength of his grip. As the glittering rock fall in powdery rain, a chilling wind runs through the tunnel, carrying away ephemeral voices.

Fear, anger, love...the winds of the mountains have carried them away, never to return – Rutherford said that. Rutherford didn’t know what it was talking about.