A Promise of Iron by Brandon McCoy (the reading list .txt) 📕

He lit a switch from the lamp flame and held it over the copper dish. With a quick breath, he snuffed out the oil lamp so that the only light remaining was from the glowing point of the switch. Unease crept in as the quin took notice. They were listening.

Green flame erupted from the pan as the ember touched the oil, and its light cast upon the crypt in an unnatural glow. Shadows danced and hid along the circular stone walls of the antechamber. Fresh gooseflesh popped up along my arms.

Quill turned back to his bag and emptied the contents on the table next to Jaeron.

“Elder, I’ve never assisted in a preservation before….I’m not sure what…”

“Just keep the light, boy,” he said, handing me a ceramic jar filled with oil. “Just keep the light.”

Quill gave wisdom as he cleaned and prepared Jaeron for the next life; I listened and added oil to the hungry green flame. Such ways were hidden ways, secret rites, passed only from elder to elder. I felt honored to bear witness.

“Do you know any Rukish hymns?” he asked as he wiped the blood from his silver knife.

“One or two, maybe.”

“Good,” he said as he stacked his instruments back into his bag. “Let’s send him off proper.”

I exited the crypt facing west. The dawn’s light glowed dimly beyond the Marches. Quill lingered behind, should his skills be needed further this night.

In my pocket were two vials similar to the one I consumed earlier.

“They would help with the pain,” Quill had said.

As I walked up the hill to the manor house, I thought of Lira. My heart said to go to her, my head, despite the fog, said otherwise. I reached the main doors and traveled down the corridor to my suite. I turned the handle of my door and pushed it inward. A fire had been lit at one time, but it was little more than a handful of red coals now. A lamp was lit on the far wall. It shined on the trinkets and gifts left for me by our guests. My coat hung on the wooden stand next to them. It was a shrine to my lordship. I managed a brief moment before I hated it all.

I went to the basin, removed my clothes, then scrubbed my hands with soap until my skin wrinkled. I went to the wardrobe, dressed into a fresh pair of under linens and hung Nahdril on the post of my bed. I pulled back the covers on my bed and climbed in.

The quiet pressed upon me. It watched me, and I my pulse quickened. I lay on my back first; then, I rolled onto both sides; my mind would not still. Adrenaline, guilt, worry, fear. I forced my eyes closed and thought of distant things. I thought of the forest south of Belen Hills. I thought of warm days catching fish in the stream. I thought of hunts with Crylwin and Ada and Jaeron.

Anxiety grew like water in a rising well; soon, I would be underwater. I fought back the tears.

I stood and paced over to the shrine. Lamplight bounced off a personalized set of dining ware. I roared as I swept my arm across the table, knocking everything to the ground. Glass shattered to the sound of coins rolling upon the hardwood. I leaned upon the table. All I could see was his blood on my hands. I hung my head and closed my eyes; his face was there, waiting. I gripped the wood of the table and screamed.

When I opened my eyes, I noticed a curiosity at my feet. I reached down and picked it up. I ran a finger around the edge and marveled at its craftsmanship. It was a pocket watch, and judging by the tarnish and scratches that marred the bronze backing, an old one, perhaps even an original gearwind from before the war.

I turned the dial to wind the spring mechanism and was satisfied with a soft click, click, click as the circular metal dial turned inside. I climbed back into bed, watch in hand. I wound the gear once more and placed it on the table. Click, click, click. Sleep took me soon after.

I recall only one dream from that night, that same dream that has haunted me many times since.

I was alone in a clearing. Cold moonlight brushed the side of my face. I looked up and noticed a stream to my right. A ring of low hills encircled the valley like sentinels. Trees cultivated into an orchard lined a stone pathway that ran from the stream to a stone worked cottage at the valley’s center. I saw a thin line of smoke flowing steadily from the chimney. I could hear the rhythmic tapping of hammer on metal.

A rush of wind hit my back, and I found myself walking towards the door. The tapping grew louder as I approached, and my chest grew tight with anticipation. The handle on the door was of polished bronze, a grand thing on an otherwise modest cottage. Drums sounded in my head as I reached toward the handle—boom boom, boom boom, playing in concert with the sound of tapping metal. I looked down and realized that it was not my hand that reached for the handle. The arm was lithe, feminine, and dark-skinned like that of the Emerese; it was scarred too as if it had suffered terrible burns.

I tried to pull my arm back, her arm, only to realize I was not in control of the dream. Drums sounded again, boom boom, boom boom all with the tapping of metal. Her hand grasped the handle and turned. The door cracked, and light flowed outward. The drums beat louder now, and I felt the urge to put my hands to my ears. He, she, we moved our scarred hand to the door and pushed upon it. I saw a face looking back at me, a man with black eyes