SONG of EMBER

30

A PRETTY SWORD

🙜

Surly was not a word that Ember could have imagined Ky Veli to embody just a few hours ago—but now there was no better. She had grown cold and coarse to him ever since awakening from her trance, and he could do nothing to mollify her. The stone-shivering hum had influenced them in profoundly different ways, and the more irritated Ky became the more resentment Ember felt. He dredged up as much forbearance as possible, for he darkly suspected it may fall on his shoulders to keep them both sane in the end, and the fear of another wayward enchantment hung about like a thick black cloud.

But his muscles were knotted and stiff from the endless walking, the cuts from the shadow-birds chafed against his filthy clothes, and he was shockingly hungry; the combined stress of Ky’s unknown intentions, the possibility of another nightmarish visitation from the redheaded specter of her sister, and now the notion that they might be followed slowly gnawed away at his patience.

“Ky,” he warned as she pulled away from him yet again, nimbly clambering over a low wall of ruined furniture.

“You,” she tossed over her shoulder, eyes wide, “are too slow.”

And she hopped to the other side.

Gritting his teeth, Ember struggled after her and—after dislodging a few loose scraps of debris—landed solidly on his feet. There he stood, arms crossed in a silent dare.

She paused.

“What are you doing?”

“Resting.” He approached a long bench which had obviously been used as a battering ram, and seated himself upon what remained of it. “Join me or don’t.”

The words I couldn’t care less hung unspoken between them.

Ky stomped one bare foot on the floor.

It hardly made a sound, but the full weight of her stare fell upon him, black and bottomless, her mouth a thin flat line. Annoyance flashed across her features, twisting her lips into a slight frown. The intent, he surmised, was to give him a fright.

Exercising the full measure of his self-control, Ember slipped the map out from under his belt where he had tucked it for easy access. He unfolded the yellowed parchment and studied the ink as if seeing it all for the first time. Instead, he watched Ky out of the corner of his eye. He knew exactly where they were going, for he had been over the stupidly small notations and marked corridors no less than twenty times since leaving the oracles’ sanctuary, and his only fear was that one or more of those paths may have been destroyed during an ancient skirmish.

She observed him disinterestedly, like a frog eyeing a fly it was too lazy to nab.

Tilting his head as if in deep thought, Ember ran his thumb over the wrinkled map, waiting—and noticed the moment Ky relented. Ears quivered, shoulders slumped, and the furrows on her brow relaxed.

The sirena slowly drifted back to the bench, and Ember allowed himself to enjoy the faint thrill of victory. It was the first time she had come to him since they passed through the mountain’s door. He was already beginning to wonder if it were possible to build an immunity, of sorts, to that earthen magic which sirens seemed to possess; doubtless naive thinking, but still…

Perhaps Hunter had exaggerated their power.

All thoughts of that nature flew out of his head as Ky seated herself beside him on the bench, her musk washing over his skin like a fine mist. Without even a fleeting moment of eye contact, she set about removing the pack from his shoulders, delicate fingers plucking at the straps.

He opened his mouth to scold her but nothing came out. She hummed, wiggling the leather satchel out from behind his back. Once it was nestled snugly in her lap, she tugged it open and reached inside.

Then she flipped it upside down, shaking it.

“It’s empty,” Ember snapped. “I told you.”

She stuffed her face into the bag, sniffing twice, and then began to examine the outer pockets. Irritated, he snatched the worn straps. Her claws dug into the leather, leaving pale scratches behind as he pulled it away.

He shifted on the petrified wood, suddenly uncomfortable with their closeness and her unwavering stare. She must be twice as hungry as he was; perhaps desperation had driven her to search for hidden morsels.

Ky licked her lips and swallowed visibly.

Ember's stomach growled.

"I'm hungry, too," he said lamely, hoping the words would put them on more equal footing.

Perhaps she wasn't contemplating the very worst of his fears…

Surely he had imagined that ravenous glint in her glance.

Or maybe he had already gone mad and was imagining everything that had happened since they encountered the book. After all, what sane man would follow one of the river-folk to the cursed Sisters Mountain in search of a ruined kingdom? The magic in this place must have—

Ky’s hand slapped the scabbard.

Ember blinked.

He wasn't sure how the strap had come unbuckled, how the sword—scabbard and all—had ended up in his lap, or how his fingers had seized upon the hilt of it.

She sniffed again. "Where did you find this?"

"Where do you think?" Ember said roughly; the nagging doubts which had bothered him ever since he claimed the weapon turned to sudden anger at the thought of explaining himself.

She narrowed her eyes, and then withdrew her hand. "It is a pretty sword."

Her words struck him as odd. It wasn't something he would have expected her to say in that moment, but although the short time spent in her company felt like an age, he'd really only known her for a matter of days.

"Yes… I suppose…"

"May I see it again?"

He almost said no, but then thought better of it and begrudgingly slipped the sword from the scabbard.

Ember held it up to a flickering orb of light far above, turning it back and forth. The metal rippled and gleamed like water, silver with a faint bluish tinge. Each graven rune stood out sharply, cast shadows mirrored in the metal.

Ky smiled her fanged smile. "A very pretty sword indeed."

Stupefied by her change of mood, Ember leaned back. She reached out and brushed the hilt, sliding her finger above the simple cross-guard to touch the blade itself.

The runes flashed blue.

With a sharp hiss, she yanked her hand away.

Ember leaped to his feet and spun to face her, the belt and scabbard tumbling to the floor and the sword still clenched in his hand.

"What!"

"It bites," she yelped, stuffing her finger in her mouth.

He wrinkled his forehead, glancing at the sword in his hand with newfound caution. "It's not that sharp…"

Paling, Ky held up her pointer finger for him to examine.

He bent closer, squinting at a small blemish. Her skin was shriveled. It reminded him of the way his bare feet had always looked after playing in the river all day as a child. With some apprehension, he reached out and touched it with the tip of his own finger. The wound was stiff and blistery.

Ember contemplated the state in which he had found the blade—lodged between the ribs of a long-dead siren—and the uncanny way in which it had illuminated Ky’s bloody footprints in the hall.

Fishbiter, he thought, rather bitterly. Of course…

Ky frowned at the sword, opening her mouth to say something angry, but after only a few moments the expression softened and her tongue twisted slightly to form a different sonant.

"It is," she relented quietly, "a pretty sword."

"You said that already."

"Did I?" she murmured, her fingers twitching toward the blade.

Ember snatched up the belt, buckled it around his chest again, and fumblingly put away the sword. Once Fishbiter was secured in place, he tugged the empty leather pack over it and adjusted the straps. Though he knew he should find some peace in the knowledge that this sword had not been idly named, his heart was ill at ease and he vowed to keep it out of her sight as much as possible: the last thing he needed was for his only companion in these dark halls to impale herself on a magical blade.

"You are rested, then?" Her eyes never left the scabbard, though she continued to lick her finger.

"For now."

He took a step and stumbled, stomach cramping and exhaustion twitching in his calves. The glance Ky tossed him resembled concern, and despite his best efforts he couldn't help feeling relief alongside the embarrassment. At least she still needed him; for what, he was bound to find out sooner or later.