Exalted - The Hammer of the Sun
Title: The Hammer of the Sun
Fandom: Exalted
Characters/pairings: Weslin Thanule (OC)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Even the mighty Solar Exalted were once men and women of the earth.
Warnings: Violence
Notes: Exalted is a fabulous new dice-chucker the nerd-herd talked me into playing. It's a hell of a lot of fun. This here is the background story for my character, a big, ugly blacksmith who likes kids and will smash your face in.
A toddler sat in the saddle before his mother, absently mouthing at a string of polished wooden beads. Before him, when the pony's head dipped low enough, he could see the open wagon, where mother's uncle entertained his brother and sister, and beyond them the huge shoulders and shiny head of father. Behind him was mother, and his back was supported by the subtle curve of belly that would be a new sister in two seasons.
He was too young to understand the relationships he had with these people, though not too young to know that they were his. Similarly, he was too young to remember the home they were escaping, or that he had ever lived anywhere but their destination, the sprawling city of Cherak. It would be many years before the Fair Folk meant anything to him. It would be even longer before he understood the sadness in the smiles of his parents, or the darkness that hid behind uncle's eyes.
o o o Five o o o
Father loomed over everything, a great northern bear of a man with miles of dusky blond mustaches and no hair on top. He sat in a chair too small for him and leaned forward, stick in hand, to trace letters in a broad, shallow tray of brick dust on the floor.
Manya cleared her throat and sat up, prim and nervous. "The Scarlet Empress sits on her th- her, uh, her throne," she read, trying to not trip over her words. "And her will holds up the... the, um. Papa, what is that word?"
"'Nation'," father said, in his gruff, proud voice. "You did well." He knocked the tray and wrote again, carefully shaping words in the fine dust, then pointed at Javell.
Javell tried to sit up as straight as Manya, vaguely mimicking her posture. "The Impeeeeerial Mountain holds up... heaven, that's heaven, uh, where the dragons lie." Father gave an approving nod and knocked the tray blank again.
"Papa?"
Father raised a shaggy brow at his younger son, who wiggled in his seat. "Papa," Weslin repeated. "Why do we read?"
Manya and Javell both looked suitably scandalized. Why, indeed! Who was Weslin to question father? Could he not see what a puzzle and a pleasure reading was? Did such a thing have to have a reason?
Father's mustaches twitched. "We are Thanule," he rumbled. "I am a scribe for the governor, a learned man who writes down his decrees so the whole city may learn. As my family was before me, and as you are now, we are a people of the mind. We learn. Read your lesson, Weslin."
Weslin peered into the tray. "The cat stalks the snake in the grass." he recited. "Papa, but why?"
Father's eyes crinkled at the edges, as if he were very pleased. "Because if you cannot read," he said, tapping the tray. "You cannot learn everything there is to know."
o o o Six o o o
Long, nimble fingers danced lengths of wire through a candle flame. Heat licked the wire, softening it until it bent into place easily, as smooth as if it had grown there. A brooch took shape in the old man's hands, a rose-shaped cage for a pretty river stone. On the other side of the work table, glacial northern eyes peered out from beneath an unruly thatch of black hair, fascinated by the play of flesh and metal and flame.
Uncle placed the brooch in a soft pouch, then looked up and beckoned. Weslin immediately circled the bench and climbed up beside uncle, afraid to breathe too hard on the miraculous tools before him. "What are you doing, uncle?"
Uncle's twinkling black eyes smiled down at him, full of a thousand secrets. "Creating," he said, sweeping up tiny metal scraps. "A few trinkets to sell for a coin at market."
Weslin folded his hands in his lap, fighting the urge to touch. "Papa says that we work with our minds," he said dubiously. "Not our hands."
Uncle grinned, showing his blackened teeth. "Your papa is a good man," he said, spooling out new lines of gleaming copper. "But he thinks the only magic worth doing is with a scroll and quill."
"Magic?" Weslin breathed, squeezing his hands together. "Like the Dragon-bloods?"
Another of uncle's grins, sardonic and sly. "Nothing near so flashy," he responded. "There's mundane magics, too. They're just so common no one notices them. Do you want to learn?"
Papa said that they worked with their heads, not their hands. But Papa also said that everything was worth learning. Weslin bit his lip and clambered up onto uncle's knee.
o o o Eight o o o
Weslin slunk into the yard, hunched and sour. Mother rested on her knees, calm and cool with her eyes on the sun falling behind the buildings. Weslin sat beside her, his legs folded and his mind churning.
Mother didn't say anything for a long time, and Weslin wished that she would hurry up and punish him. Finally, when the tallest buildings pierced the sun's edge, mother shifted imperceptibly. "Why did you beat Vosa?"
Weslin squirmed in guilt and righteous anger. "He got into the work kit uncle gave me," he said, sharper than his wont. "He was trying to fit a stone up his nose."
"I know what he did," mother said, in that patient manner that said you were in for a lesson you don't want. "Why did you beat him?"
Weslin was silent, tumbling his thoughts through his mind to find the answer mother wanted. "I was mad," he said finally. "And I wanted to make sure he'd be too afraid to go in it again."
Mother nodded. "So, you will lead through fear, and teach with pain," she said calmly.
Weslin's head snapped up. "What? Mama, no!"
"Like a petty lordling-"
"No, not like that!"
"-Kicking a beggar. Or an overseer with a whip-"
"Mama!"
"-Flaying the slaves-"
"No, Mama, I'm not like that!"
"-beating them when they're not fast enough."
Weslin burst into frustrated, shamed, horrified tears. "Mama, I'm not!" he insisted through his sobs. "I'm not cruel, I'm not mean, I'm-" His words failed and he buried his face in his hands, his shoulders quaking.
Tiny, strong hands swept him into a warm lap and a gentle embrace. Weslin turned his face into mother's shoulder, crying like he was an infant, crying like Vosa cried when he was punished, and the comparison made him cry harder, ashamed of himself.
The sun was nearly gone when Weslin's tears finally abated. His eyes were gummy and his mind husked out, like a summer gourd. Mother's hand stroked his hair, gently soothing, and he bunched up her tunic up in his fist, an anchor to keep the world in place.
Mother's lips pressed against his cheek, and her voice murmured into his ear. "You will be large, like your father. You will be strong, and you must know this strength. The world is full of many too small and weak to help themselves, Weslin. Children. Slaves. Serfs with no learning. You will have all of the tools to teach and protect them. Remember this."
Weslin hiccuped. "I'll remember this, mama," he promised.
o o o
Weslin was vaguely aware of mother watching with pride, of father frowning but not overly perturbed. Weslin was aware, but he put them from his mind as he carefully, clumsily guided Vosa through winding coils of wire on a dowel to turn into links.
o o o Eleven o o o
Weslin paused to catch his breath, clutching a stitch in his ribs. The hinge pin on the front door had broken, and father had handed him the broken pin and a coin to buy a replacement. Their home was not in a bad part of town, but Weslin still did not want his sisters in a home with a broken door for any longer than necessary. So he had ran, all the way to the nearest smithy, hoping the smith could replace the simple pin quickly. Impatiently raking back curls that threatened to poke his eyes out, Weslin took a deep breath and opened the smithy door.
It was like opening an oven door. The wave of heat hit him in a smoky blast, making his eyes water. Coughing slightly, he stepped in, blinking in the hot atmosphere.
It was like walking into his own personal heaven.
Weslin gaped, open-mouthed, at the strong-armed apprentices clanging away at metal bars with hammers. Another young man was armed with a pair of tongs at an odd plate, drawing what Weslin realized was copper wire from holes in the plate. An ancient old man with even more mustaches than father was swinging a huge hammer, each blow carefully placed to shape a metal shield.
"Hey, what're you here for?"
Weslin looked up. A man somewhere between the sweating apprentices and the old man was looking down at him, hands on his hips. Weslin tried to speak, failed, and held up the broken pin instead.
The man took it, peering at the broken ends, then looked back at Weslin. "Wood door or stone?" he asked. Weslin felt like a fish out of water, gaping helplessly, and his eyes were drawn to a worker pouring molten metal from a crucible into a mold. "I asked you a question, boy," the man said, gruff but not unkind. "You simple?"
A prick to his pride brought Weslin back to his senses. "Wood," he said. "How do they get the fire hot enough to melt metal? A stove doesn't burn hot enough, or it would melt."
The man's eyes crinkled into a smile. "You want to find out?" he asked.
Weslin's heart leapt, then sank. "I can't today," he said, shaking his head. "Can, can I come back?"
The man clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make his knees waver. "Of course. Anyone questions you, you tell them that Alren invited you."
o o o Twelve o o o
"And there were four of them!" Manya scolded, but her hands were gentle as she cleaned the scrapes on his arms. "Four! What were you thinking?"
Weslin shrugged, wincing as the motion pulled a strained muscle. "They were pushing around a kid," he said. "It wasn't right."
"He gave 'em a sporting target," Javell snorted, grinning at Weslin over Manya's shoulder.
"It was a serf's child," Manya pointed out, shaking her head. "Not worth the effort. I wonder what mama would think."
"She'd be proud," father spoke up, his grief-lined face smiling for the first time in several months. "As am I."
Manya's month snapped shut, and Weslin flushed.
o o o Fourteen o o o
"Absolutely not," Javell said flatly, folding his arms. "Papa wanted you to go to an academy. Maybe get a patronage. You've got so much potential, Weslin. Don't throw it away."
Javell was six years older, already a man, but Weslin was as tall and still growing, and he met his brother's eyes at a level. "I have a lot of potentials," he said. "Alren is offering me the one I want."
o o o Seventeen o o o
One of the new apprentices had a son. The child's mother was dead, and the man had no where to take him during the day. The boy spent most of his time in the tiny court yard, drawing pictures in the dirt, or running simple errands for the smithy.
Weslin watched the boy doodle with a burnt stick on the wall, half-napping during his short noon meal. The boy was intelligent but uneducated, constantly trying to figure things out. He'd probably follow his father into smithing, never expanding his boundaries beyond these stone walls. And he'd never go very far in the business itself, if he did not know his numbers well enough to bargain for supplies and prices.
It was... sad.
Weslin leaned forward, bracing his elbow on his knee. The dirt before him was probably too gritty for this, but he scratched out a few simple math problems with his finger tip. Then erased them and wrote new ones. And continued until the boy was crouched just out of reach, watching him.
Then his break was over.
He continued every day. Soon, the boy came over almost as soon as he entered the yard, watching him scratch and erase. A few times, the boy came near to speaking, but always stifled himself, biting his knuckle.
One day, Weslin sat down in his usual place, but didn't start to scratch in the dirt. The boy sat across from him, expectant at first, then increasingly fidgety. Weslin let him fidget. The break was nearly over when the boy finally spoke up. "Uh, sir?" he asked, hesitant and shy. "Why, um."
Weslin hid a smile in a shrug. "Why aren't I working problems?" he asked. The boy nodded eagerly. "Do you even know what I'm doing?"
The boy's brow furrowed, even as he blushed and looked away. "Numbers," he muttered. "I think. I know a little, enough to know that you're a lot smarter than I am."
Hooked. "Would you like to learn?" Weslin asked gently.
The boy's blush deepened. "'m a serf," he muttered. "Not allowed."
Weslin snorted. "Like hell you aren't," he said cheerfully. "Come on over."
o o o Eighteen o o o
Vosa took a calming breath before opening the door. The smithy always made him nervous, any time he came to visit, no matter how often he did. Too much heat, too much metal. but Alren knew him by sight and just waved him through. "Th'courtyard," Alren bellowed over the hiss of steam rising from heated metal. "Holding class."
Briefly confused, Vosa sketched a little bow and passed through the smithy, flinching back from a worker and his hammer blows. A cloud of steam obscured his vision, but then the courtyard door was half-familiar wood under his fingers, and he stepped out into the sunlight.
Five children sat around Weslin's feet, each focused with rapt attention on the charcoal marks Weslin was making on the wall. The ghosts of past lessons decorated the whitewash in rain-blurred streaks, and another smith was painfully obviously trying to pretend like he wasn't listening.
Weslin turned back to his tiny class, spotted Vosa, and grinned, waving at him to join them without losing stride.
o o o Twenty Five o o o
Arilin smiled and waved over her shoulder as she left the smithy. Weslin, distracted by the pretty merchant's daughter, placed his armload of wood into the basket by the forge and immediately stood up into a shelf. Barking a snarled curse, he gripped his head and sat heavily in a chair, the chair creaking warningly under his bulk.
No blood under his fingers. Just sparse hair and a splitting headache. Weslin grimaced and reached for a jug of water with his free hand. He'd moved out from under Alren's direct guidance, into a satelite smithy in another district with another journeyman and a pair of apprentices. Arilin was the daughter of a frequent customer, and the apprentices had begun to rib him about how often she did her father's business at the smithy. Especially when she came by afterhours like this, discussing business and the day's news with him as he cleaned and set out wood for the next day. Especially when some of the 'business' involved simple matters a servant could repair.
"Weslin!"
A harsh whisper, from one of the back alley windows. Weslin frowned and stood up, his water forgotten. He knew that voice, and they sounded scared.
No one was visible when he opened the shutters. Frown deepening, Welsin started to draw back, when movement caught his eye. An emancipated wraith crept from the shadows, bright, fearful eyes darting to every real or imagined threat. Sainu. A boy who had learned at his knee a few years ago. He hadn't stayed long, but he sent others to study in Alren's courtyard, badgering and cajoling younger children in the area to get what learning they could.
The Sainu before him now was a wasted husk of the wiry boy he'd been last they met. Heavy bandages swathed his forehead, and his dry, sunken cheeks hinted at many days without food or drink. The boy crept across the alley like a kicked cat and pressed against a barrel of rainwater, then finally looked at Weslin properly.
Fear. Angry, soul-sickened fear, the likes of which Weslin had never seen. Something unfair had shattered Sainu's world, and his suffering was driving him mad. Weslin drew a sharp breath and beckoned, pushing the shutter open wider. Sainu took a panicked look around and dove into the window, tucking and rolling neatly while Weslin pulled the shutters shut.
Sainu dove across the room and dropped the latch on the front door, then turned and sat against the door, breathing heavily. Weslin approached cautiously, stopping short at the sight of tears cutting pale tracks through Sainu's dirty cheeks. Sainu stared up at him, suspicion and gratitude and sickening fear mingling in his over-bright eyes. "I didn't trust anyone else," he whispered. "I am so sorry."
"You've done no wrong by me," Weslin said gently, motioning to the smithy's lone table. "Sit."
Sainu laughed, a harsh noise like a crow's caw, but he moved to the table anyway, fingering what Weslin suspected was a knife at his belt and jumping at shadows. He sat down and grabbed the water jug, downing half of the contents. Weslin watched him, silent and on the edge of his own seat. His concern for the boy not withstanding, Sainu was haunted, soul-sick - and dangerous.
When Sainu sat down the jug, there were fresh tears on his face, and he gave Weslin a sardonic grin that nearly broke the blacksmith's heart. "You'll change your mind," he croaked, laughing and crying. "You'll change. And you'll turn me in to the Wyld Hunt and get a reward and marry your merchant sweetheart as a hero. And I'll die."
Weslin swallowed thickly. Anathema. What else could Sainu be referencing?
Sainu made a sweeping gesture that seemed to include the whole world. "And what did I do to deserve it?" he demanded. "I killed a man. A man cruising the streets, looking for orphans to turn into whores. I've seen him before, I know what kind of work he does. We fought, and merchants came to help him. As if he deserved helping! As if what he was doing was okay! Filthy bastards were probably his customers. I killed him, and one other, and screamed-" He went silent for a moment, staring into his lap.
"It was my voice, but not my voice," Sainu continued quietly, the words tumbling over themselves. "Something- something so much more than me, condemning them in the name of the Sun. I wasn't screaming, I, I was thundering at them, like a storm. I started to glow, and they ran. I hid it as best I could, waiting for the glow to die down, but they know I'm in the city somewhere. I think one of them trailed me to this district, but either he's better than I am or I lost him." He shuddered, shoulders almost as wide as a man's heaving beneath the rags he wore. "What did I do to deserve this?" he whispered.
Weslin sighed through his nose, mind whirling. Anathema! Kind, brilliant Sainu, an Anathema. It was inconceivable, impossible. Was Sainu's worship of the Immaculate Dragons a farce? Had he made a pact with dark powers to save the orphans he cared for? "Did you do anything to deserve it?" he asked.
Sainu shook his head, not the violent denial of the guilty, but the resignation of the innocent but unbelieved. "If killing a child-pimp is the price for this, I'll accept it," he spat. "But I-" He bit his lip, thinking. "It feels right, Weslin. There's a light in my soul, under everything, and it burns, but it's right. I don't know what I am, but I don't feel like an agent of dark powers." He reached up and pulled off the bandages on his head. In the center of his forehead was a dull glitter, like gold imbedded under his skin, forming a simple sunburst motif. "It feels like the sun itself is in my heart," he said, looking Weslin steadily in the eyes. "And if the sun is a dark power, you may as well kill me now."
Weslin sighed again and stood, pacing in the small space at the front of the shop. Questions, theories, fears, doubt, conviction; a violent maelstrom of emotion and thought. Nothing he'd ever heard precedented this. Every Anathema he'd heard of was a dangerous enemy of the Realm, an agent of black power and terrible design. Not a boy protecting his fellows. Not a pious worshiper. Not an almost-man Weslin would have been proud to have for a son.
Not like Sainu.
Weslin stopped pacing and returned Sainu's steady gaze. "I believe you," he said firmly.
A knock at the door.
Weslin swore. Sainu whirled from his seat, melting into the shadows at the rear of the darkened smithy. Weslin debated ignoring the caller, but a voice called for him. Someone knew he was still there.
"Thanule! How long has it been, my friend?" The man beaming up at him set Weslin's stomach somewhere near his lungs. Grav was a petty merchant from the district he'd been raised in, a scam artist constantly trying to offload questionable goods on Alren as scrap metal. Despite his jovial greetings, his suspicious eyes scanned the smithy behind Weslin. After a moment, when Weslin did not move or invite him in, his smile faltered slightly. "Well?" he demanded. "Can I enter?"
"I was just leaving; we are closed for the evening," Weslin answered, stepping through the door and forcing Grav to back off with his presence alone. Grav looked briefly, viciously, annoyed, but he smoothed it away with little effort. Weslin raised a brow at the man. "Was there something you need?" he asked.
Grav looked around, his attempt at being subtle only increasing his obviousness. "Down here," he hissed, waving Weslin towards an alley. When Weslin hesitated, Grav stamped his foot. "You're in danger, you big ox! Come here."
Weslin briefly entertained the idea of shoving Grav inside of a nearby refuse bin. Instead, he took a calming breath and followed Grav between the smithy and the business next door. They paused just around the corner from the window Sainu had climbed in, Grav nervously eager and Weslin fast losing patience. "What am I in danger of?" he demanded.
"Sh!" Grav hissed, louder than Weslin had spoken. "You'll give us away!"
Weslin folded his arms, but heard a noise that turned his heart to lead. His shutters opening. Before he could react, Grav darted around the corner, something short and sharp glittering in his hand. Weslin shouted some sort of denial, following Grav, but he was too late. Grav was already halfway inside the window Sainu was trying to escape from, Sainu was already on the floor, the blood on the floor was already too thick and heavy. Grav pulled himself the rest of the way in, slumping to the floor beside Sainu's corpse, a pained grin on his face and his hand pressed over a wound in his side. "Told you," Grav said.
Weslin stepped up onto the window sill and carefully into the room, avoiding the puddle of blood. He frantically scanned sainu for any signs of life, already knowing he wouldn't find any. Too much blood, too many stab wounds in his neck and chest. Grav was viper-fast.
Grav staggered to his knees, leaning heavily against the anvil. "Anathema!" he crowed. "Can you believe it? He killed an honest merchant, glowing with devil-fire the whole time. I've been tracking him for nearly a season now." He tipped Weslin a conspiratorial wink. "Bet I can get a reward from the Dynast for taking him out."
Weslin knelt and took Sainu's knife from his lax hand. It was one he'd made, when he was just an apprentice, for Sainu's older brother. His thoughts were a sick churning inside his head, a blanket of shock rudely shoved away in favor of hot anger that swelled like a tide.
"What're you looking so sad for?" Grav demanded. "He's Anathema, look!" He grabbed Sainu's hair and shook, the mark on Sainu's head glittering faintly in the wan light from the window. "A monster. I know, he probably told you story to gain your sympathy; I heard you talking to him. But he was after your soul, Thanule. But he's dead now. I saved you."
Dead. Sainu, who could have charmed the Empress herself, dead at the hands of a piddling con-man. Dead with the sun in his heart and the threat of the Dynast like a guillotine overhead. Weslin dropped the knife.
Grav tried to stand and slipped in the blood, landing on his rear with a grimace. "Snap out of it," he ordered. "I'm hurt. Go get a healer." Weslin didn't move, and Grav stretched out his foot to kick him in the shin, leaving a bloody footprint on his calf. "Thanule! Hurry up and go!"
"You killed a child of the sun," Weslin said softly.
Grav paled. "What did you say?"
Rage, sorrow, pain. A storm boiled in his heart, clouding his thoughts, tightening his fists, but he was sure of this, he was sure. "He was a child of the sun," Weslin repeated, looking at Grav. "And you killed him."
Grav leaned back, pressing against the anvil. "He was a monster, Thanule! Anathema! What did you expect me to do?"
Father, shaking his head, 'Not all can be taught.' Mother, sitting on the highest branch of a tree, holding his hand, 'Your heart is the best guide you can ask for.' And a beam, like the last flare of a setting sun, burning away his confused turmoil, leaving behind only the knowledge that Grav was wrong in this, that Sainu hadn't been cursed, but something so much more.
Fire in his veins and sun in his head and light in the smithy. Grav shrank back, kicking at the floor in a vain, terrified attempt to shove himself through the anvil, his mouth working noiselessly. Weslin stepped over Sainu's corpse and picked up Grav by the neck, snapping his spine with a snap of his wrist.
The sun in his head flared, retreated, whispered deep into his mind, 'You have work to do.'
o o o
Arilin his brothers his sisters mother father uncle everyone around and behind and before all smiles all welcoming he is a hero he is a king 'Welcome back Weslin how many heads of monsters have you brought us?'
He looks into his arms and there are heads heads so many heads of children and beggars and they all have sunbursts between their brows and maggots in their eyes and Sainu looks up at him 'Why am I dead I am a sun-child like you why why why' and his own head is next to Sainu screaming with a silent tongue and he drops them down down down he is falling falling fall-
A mountain swallows him. There is music.
She is pale, thin, sour. But her arms are corded with wiry muscle and gauntlets that glow like fire cover her hands. She leans over the largest anvil he's ever seen, her hammer pounding at an intricate, curved blade and her forehead glows with a circle half-filled. Like his own.
Where am I?
She looks up at him, snorts, goes back to her work. "The star-bitches promised me a vision of you," she says. "Didn't think you'd be here so soon. My end must be near." It is a cavern, lit by floating baubles of light. Forges glow around her, and work tables stretch away into the distance. At her throat is a red stone. She looks up at him again, a critical eye sizing him up. "You're bigger than I expected. Maybe my son has something that fits you. I make weaponry, not armor."
Where am I? Who are you?
She gestures, swinging the heavy hammer like it weighs nothing. "My forge," she says. "My home." She places one last blow on the blade and dunks it into a nearby barrel of water. "And I am your past."
What are you? What am I?
She looks surprised, contemplative. "I wonder how the world shall change so much," she murmurs, hanging the blade on a rack. "That one of the Solars does not know his own fate."
Solar?
"You are the chosen of the Unconquered Sun," she says flatly, placing her fiery fists on her hips. "A god among men who shall lead the world. A scholar. A creator. A blacksmith to the stars." She waves a hand. "I am wasting time. Follow the path to the mountain village. They'll guide you from there."
What path? Which village?
"You'll know. Get going."
Wait!
Music Sunlight
Moonbeams A mountain in the distance
A path of stars
An old man
"They'll remember me."
A young man
The anvil
Rising darkness
Destiny
"They better, anyway."
The forge Dreamscapes
A hammer
Day
Weslin sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. It was rare for him to remember his dreams, but he had a feeling he'd never forget this one. He still didn't know where the path or the mountain were, but he was pretty sure he could find them.
o o o Twenty Six o o o
The town leader was a younger man than Weslin would have thought, hard-eyed and quiet. He put up Weslin for the night in his own home, serving a simple but hearty soup for dinner and not saying much. Weslin allowed the man his silence and helped where Naril would let him.
Stacking the night's wood by the fire, Weslin was aware of Naril watching his every move, studying him intently. Weslin finished stacking and sat on the low stool his host had provided, dusting his hands absently against his leg.
"Why are you here?"
Almost more words than Naril had said all day. Weslin studied the other man carefully. Naril was... nervous. Not afraid of him, simply nervous. Weslin wondered why. "I'm searching for something," he said. He paused, debating, then shrugged. Naril seemed trustworthy. "A path lined with stars."
Naril took a slow breath, his hands tightening on his knees. "Why?" he demanded.
Naril knew something. Weslin leaned forward. "You know where it is," he said; a statement, not a question.
Naril's eyes hardened to cold flint. "Why?" he said again.
Weslin held Naril's eyes for a long moment. When the other man didn't back down, Weslin sighed through his nose. "A dream led me here," he said, not wanting to share any more details than he had to.
Naril's eyes flickered briefly to Weslin's forehead. "I cannot let anyone on the path without proof," he said.
"What proof?" Weslin asked, though he was fairly certain he knew.
Naril only looked at him. Weslin debated. It was a risk, even in the Threshold, where the Realm's reach was thin. But if Naril knew where the path to Her forge was, he'd take the risk. Closing his eyes, Weslin reached for the sunset gleam that bathed his soul and took hold, concentrating.
When he opened his eyes, Naril was bathed in light Weslin knew came from himself. The man took a steadying breath and looked at the floor between his feet. "I will take you there at dawn," he said quietly. "You must reach the cave at sunset. Any earlier, you will not find it. Any later, creatures in the mountains will eat your bones." He fixed Weslin with a last hard look. "Even if you do bear-" A nod at Weslin's head. "That mark, that does not mean the cave will open for you. If you are not the right One, the mountain will kill you."
"I understand."
o o o
Weslin breathed a quick prayer to the White Dragon. Even if he was Anathema, sun-child, blasphemy, whatever, he certainly hoped that the Dragon wouldn't take it out on him while he was halfway up a narrow mountain path.
But it was the star-path. Glittering discs set into the ground directed him along the correct path, each slightly curved and engraved with writing he didn't recognize. The path wound back and forth, staying on the western face of the mountain, lost in shadow until the noon sun cleared the mountain summit. Then the glittering discs became mirror-bright beacons, impossible to miss, but they also grew further and further apart. It didn't take him long to catch the trick of finding one and watching the mountain until the sun moved enough to light up the next, then hurrying to that one. Sometimes, the wait was so short that he didn't dare lose any time resting. Sometimes, it was so long he despaired having missed the next mark. But he made progress as the day did, climbing higher and higher above the town.
The path widened out just as the sun was starting to lose strength, threatening to dip behind the next mountain in the chain. Weslin desperately scanned the path ahead for another beacon, hoping that the trick he'd used was right, and was nearly blinded when the wall beside him seemed to light on fire. Stepping back blindly, he nearly went over the path edge, windmilling over open air for a terrifying second.
He wrenched himself back to solid ground and fell to his knees, heart thudding in his chest. The fire was dying down, and he looked up. What appeared to be thirty feet of nearly sheer wall was imbedded with gold flecks that formed an elaborate sun mandala, each angled to catch the last light of the sun. The mandala was clearly split down the middle.
Examination revealed no mechanism to open the door, though he did find the hairline crack of the seam. Pressing his forehead against the door did nothing, nor did flaring his power around him. None of the few tools he had would fit into the crack, and there was no keyhole he could see. Frustrated, with the light fading fast around him, he leaned against the door, thumping it with his fist.
The door swung in, nearly spinning him to the ground.
A narrow throat of stone scarcely taller than he was greeted him. Weslin stepped in warily, squinting in the gloom. As soon as he cleared the door, it swung shut behind him, clapping him into darkness. With a yell, he leapt back at the door, clawing at the surface. Polished smooth, with nothing to gain traction on.
He was trapped.
Huffing in annoyance, Weslin concentrated and flared his power out, lighting the passage. The light revealed what his fingers had already told him; the door was perfectly smooth. Except it wasn't. There were the faintest of marks near the seam, less dents than scuff marks, about as high as his belly. Or chest high for Her. Weslin reached out and thunked his knuckles against the stone, and hurriedly stepped back as the door swung open.
Interesting. He wondered what powered it.
The door swung shut again, and Weslin turned his back to it, slowly following the path deeper into the mountain. The tunnel was smooth, decorated with a lovely flame motif carved into the walls, and sloped gently down. After fifty or sixty feet, the floor ended in a series of steps, and the walls disappeared to either side. Peering into the gloom, Weslin flared his power out further.
A floating ball of metal just before him flickered and burst into flame. The flame arced out, jumping from ball to ball, gradually lighting the cavern he'd seen in his dream. It seemed equal parts the work of both nature and man, a seven-sided floor smoothing seamlessly into rough walls and a ceiling of stalactites. The stairs led down to the raised center of the floor, where a familiar anvil waited. Scattered across the floor was crumbled stone and broken, petrified wood; the remnants of the forges and work tables he'd seen. Not natural decay, he realized. The furnishings had been shattered by tool and hand.
The place was warm. Almost unnaturally so. Stooping briefly, Weslin pressed his hand to the floor. Banked heat met his skin, and he stood with a thoughtful frown. Volcanic.
A pale shimmer surrounded the anvil, flickering briefly against his skin before it disappeared. Resting on the anvil itself was a suit of ruddy-gold banded armor and a huge war hammer of the same hue. Floating in the air above the anvil was an amulet set with a red stone, the same he'd seen Her wearing. Of the beautiful fire-gauntlets, there was no sign.
He touched the armor, then picked up a greave, examining it carefully. Orichalcum. He'd handled it once, when he was just an apprentice and Alren had received a commission from a very wealthy client. A governor's ransom sat on the anvil before him, gleaming in the light of the floating balls. And eying it, he realized it would fit him almost perfectly.
The thought brought him pause. Just what was he planning on doing with such armament? He wasn't entirely sure. Protecting himself from the Realm's agents, certainly, but what of other Anathema? Clearly, not all of them had made deals with dark powers; was he not an example of such? And he was certain that many, like poor, doomed Sainu, were too young and impoverished to escape as he had.
He had spent much of his life protecting and helping those smaller and weaker than he was. Perhaps he could do the same for those of this strange new race he'd found himself a part of. Mulling the idea over, he reached out and grasped the floating amulet.
o o o
Naril watched the mountain for a long time after the sun set, hoping against hope that the huge sun-lit stranger would return. Four sun-children had appeared in town since his birth. All four had climbed the star-path, but none had returned. His faith in the inevitable arrival of the Hammer of the Sun had led to the town choosing him as a leader, their holy guide down the trail of life, and the guide to the path of stars for those who might be worthy.
The Immaculate Order was known to them, but no monks had ever come to convert them to worship the Dragons. Their town, a small but profitable trading hub for many nearby villages, was too little and too isolated to bother with. He doubted they existed on few, if any, of the Realm's maps.
A creak of old bones behind him. Old Raj, the former leader and his own mentor, come to stand at his side. "So," the old man said. "He was a sun-child."
Naril nodded once. "And I fear I sent him to his death. The mountain guardians will rip him apart."
Raj clapped him on the shoulder and didn't answer, watching the mountain with him. Encouraging words were useless. The records went back far; sun-children had arrived in the village many times over the centuries, and none had returned from the harsh mountain. More had come since Naril's birth than had appeared over entire centuries before, and Naril took this as a sign. The records hinted at a time when the sun-children had walked Creation openly, and their increased frequency was both heartening and troubling.
Suddenly, the entire mountain shuddered. A few screams rose from the town as people and objects fell. The screams did not stop, however; they rose from the mountain as well, in a shrieking cacophony of unholy noise. The mountain guardians were awake.
Naril stared in horror for a brief moment, then turned and ran into the town. "To arms! The guardians walk!" Men ran from all directions, pale and resolute. All knew of the dangers of raising the guardians from their rest, and all were willing to try and drive the monstrous creations back to their resting places.
Occasionally, the records indicated that it worked.
By the time Naril made it back to the edge of the town, the shambling clockwork monsters were visible. Three huge forms stood silhouetted against the early morning sky, shrieking in horrid artificial harmony. Each was twice as tall as a man, and each was - according to the records - programmed to defend the mountain. But they were ancient, and Naril suspected they were beginning to break down and lose their programming. They attacked the town very rarely, once every two or three generations, but the damage they wreaked was horrid.
The townsmen formed a line between the monsters and the buildings, pale-faced and most in their night clothes with armor thrown haphazardly on top. Naril drew his sword, swallowing a thick lump of despair. The sun-child had failed, and his failure would kill many of the townspeople before the guardians staggered back to their mountain caves.
A gleam from further up the mountain caught Naril's eye. Something bright was descending the mountain at an incredible rate. The guardians turned and screamed at the distraction, clearly agitated. The townsmen held, unsure.
The glow reached the last cliff face above the town and leapt, resolving itself to be the sun-child, wreathed in flame. He came down on the guardian nearest him, swinging a sledge the size of a child at the creature's tiny head. It staved in with a hollow crump, and its body slowly fell to the ground.
The other two guardians shrieked again and closed in on the sun-child. He ducked their lumbering attacks and smashed the leg of one, causing it to fall to the ground. It was still alive, however, and dragged itself towards the sun-child as he turned towards the still-standing guardian.
Naril bit his lip and ran forward, jamming his sword into the shoulder-joint of the guardian's reaching arm. The guardian shrieked and flailed, knocking him aside with its good arm. But it didn't reach the sun-child, who imploded the other guardian's chest with his hammer, then turned and smashed the head of the one on the ground.
o o o
Weslin clutched a stitch in his side, leaning on his maul and trying to not breathe in ragged gasps. A day's trip up the mountain had taken him an hour to descend, leaping cliffs and sliding down the steepest embankments he dared. He'd seen the lumbering machines on his way up the mountain, quiet and still half way up, but not until he left the forge did they stir. They weren't visible from the forge entrance, but he'd had a pretty good idea what the terrible screams echoing from the dark were.
Catching his breath, he turned towards the townspeople. And went very, very still. They were all on the ground, kneeling with their foreheads pressed into the dirt. Even Naril, who was in obvious pain, blood darkening his shirt on one side.
Weslin hesitated, then crouched at Naril's side. "You're hurt," he said.
"My Lord," Naril said, not looking up. "My injuries, they are-" He swallowed. "They are nothing."
"Like hell. Get off the ground. You don't have to bow to me."
"But-" Naril's protest was broken when Weslin grabbed him by the arm on his good side and pulled him to his feet. Naril stumbled, and Weslin caught him around the waist, supporting him easily. "My Lord!" Naril protested sharply. "This- I do not deserve your help!"
Weslin frowned down at the man. "This morning, I was a 'sun child'," he said, almost wounded. "Tonight, I am Anathema?"
Naril's eyes widened, and he shook his head. "No, My Lord, you are- I am not worthy of your help any more."
Weslin raised a brow, and started marching Naril towards the village. "Whatever you think I am," he said firmly. "Everyone is 'worthy' of my help."
o o o
Weslin leaned forward in his chair, studying his hands. "A god?"
Naril nodded, wincing as he did so. "The Hammer of the Sun. Only the Hammer could claim the mountain forge. We've been awaiting your return to Creation."
Weslin ran his hand over his balding pate. "I'm a blacksmith from Cherak," he said patiently."Not a, a god."
Neril leaned forward and tapped Weslin's forehead. "The sun chose you," he said. "I do not know what you are, not really. Only that the sun chose you, and you claimed the forge. As far as we are concerned, you are our god."
Weslin snorted. "So, I am-what? The village spirit, to be venerated on once a year?"
Naril shrugged. "If you chose," he said. "We do not follow the Immaculate Order here. We believe in gods to be worshiped, not spirits to be revered in Order-approved ways on Order-approved days. If you like, we can celebrate every year, or every season, or every moon." He shrugged, allowing almost a smile on his face. "If you want nothing to do with it, I will pick dates and try my best to emulate and teach what I've seen of you thus far."
"I don't know if I want it to exist at all," Weslin said dubiously.
Naril sighed dramatically, just as old Raj entered the room, carrying a huge wooden box banded in steel. "That's too bad," he said, as Raj set the box down at Weslin's feet. "After all, we are supposed to give these to our god. If you deny it, we'd have to take them back."
Raj opened the box. Nestled within were the scarlet gloves She had worn in his dream. The forge gloves.
Weslin narrowed his eyes at Naril, who was almost smiling. "You're trying to bribe me into it," he accused.
Naril shrugged. "They're yours, either way," he said off-hand. "But they'll remind you, every day you wear them, that we've consecrated the ground where the guardians lie, and that we hold a feast this day every year, in your name. If you're going to deny us, do you really want to take them?"
o o o Twenty Seven o o o
"Over there," Weslin ordered without looking up, scratching out his accounts on a piece of slate. His two apprentices - young men from Anvil's Rest, both pious and eager to learn - struggled in with a heavy load of raw iron. The forge in Nexus was small but quickly gaining a good reputation for the quality of weaponry he turned out. He was on a fast track to becoming a known specialist, and already city guides were dropping his name after only a minimal bribe.
The gauntlets were brought out only very rarely from their hiding spot above the forge. He was not yet absolutely sure what the things were, but he'd found enough information to know that they were powerful creations that many beings would love to get their hands on. Best to keep them secret. As well as the goremaul, and he kept his amulet hid beneath his working apron.
The door creaked open. Weslin Thanule, the Hammer of the Sun, looked up to greet his next customer.
o o o
Fandom: Exalted
Characters/pairings: Weslin Thanule (OC)
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Even the mighty Solar Exalted were once men and women of the earth.
Warnings: Violence
Notes: Exalted is a fabulous new dice-chucker the nerd-herd talked me into playing. It's a hell of a lot of fun. This here is the background story for my character, a big, ugly blacksmith who likes kids and will smash your face in.
A toddler sat in the saddle before his mother, absently mouthing at a string of polished wooden beads. Before him, when the pony's head dipped low enough, he could see the open wagon, where mother's uncle entertained his brother and sister, and beyond them the huge shoulders and shiny head of father. Behind him was mother, and his back was supported by the subtle curve of belly that would be a new sister in two seasons.
He was too young to understand the relationships he had with these people, though not too young to know that they were his. Similarly, he was too young to remember the home they were escaping, or that he had ever lived anywhere but their destination, the sprawling city of Cherak. It would be many years before the Fair Folk meant anything to him. It would be even longer before he understood the sadness in the smiles of his parents, or the darkness that hid behind uncle's eyes.
o o o Five o o o
Father loomed over everything, a great northern bear of a man with miles of dusky blond mustaches and no hair on top. He sat in a chair too small for him and leaned forward, stick in hand, to trace letters in a broad, shallow tray of brick dust on the floor.
Manya cleared her throat and sat up, prim and nervous. "The Scarlet Empress sits on her th- her, uh, her throne," she read, trying to not trip over her words. "And her will holds up the... the, um. Papa, what is that word?"
"'Nation'," father said, in his gruff, proud voice. "You did well." He knocked the tray and wrote again, carefully shaping words in the fine dust, then pointed at Javell.
Javell tried to sit up as straight as Manya, vaguely mimicking her posture. "The Impeeeeerial Mountain holds up... heaven, that's heaven, uh, where the dragons lie." Father gave an approving nod and knocked the tray blank again.
"Papa?"
Father raised a shaggy brow at his younger son, who wiggled in his seat. "Papa," Weslin repeated. "Why do we read?"
Manya and Javell both looked suitably scandalized. Why, indeed! Who was Weslin to question father? Could he not see what a puzzle and a pleasure reading was? Did such a thing have to have a reason?
Father's mustaches twitched. "We are Thanule," he rumbled. "I am a scribe for the governor, a learned man who writes down his decrees so the whole city may learn. As my family was before me, and as you are now, we are a people of the mind. We learn. Read your lesson, Weslin."
Weslin peered into the tray. "The cat stalks the snake in the grass." he recited. "Papa, but why?"
Father's eyes crinkled at the edges, as if he were very pleased. "Because if you cannot read," he said, tapping the tray. "You cannot learn everything there is to know."
o o o Six o o o
Long, nimble fingers danced lengths of wire through a candle flame. Heat licked the wire, softening it until it bent into place easily, as smooth as if it had grown there. A brooch took shape in the old man's hands, a rose-shaped cage for a pretty river stone. On the other side of the work table, glacial northern eyes peered out from beneath an unruly thatch of black hair, fascinated by the play of flesh and metal and flame.
Uncle placed the brooch in a soft pouch, then looked up and beckoned. Weslin immediately circled the bench and climbed up beside uncle, afraid to breathe too hard on the miraculous tools before him. "What are you doing, uncle?"
Uncle's twinkling black eyes smiled down at him, full of a thousand secrets. "Creating," he said, sweeping up tiny metal scraps. "A few trinkets to sell for a coin at market."
Weslin folded his hands in his lap, fighting the urge to touch. "Papa says that we work with our minds," he said dubiously. "Not our hands."
Uncle grinned, showing his blackened teeth. "Your papa is a good man," he said, spooling out new lines of gleaming copper. "But he thinks the only magic worth doing is with a scroll and quill."
"Magic?" Weslin breathed, squeezing his hands together. "Like the Dragon-bloods?"
Another of uncle's grins, sardonic and sly. "Nothing near so flashy," he responded. "There's mundane magics, too. They're just so common no one notices them. Do you want to learn?"
Papa said that they worked with their heads, not their hands. But Papa also said that everything was worth learning. Weslin bit his lip and clambered up onto uncle's knee.
o o o Eight o o o
Weslin slunk into the yard, hunched and sour. Mother rested on her knees, calm and cool with her eyes on the sun falling behind the buildings. Weslin sat beside her, his legs folded and his mind churning.
Mother didn't say anything for a long time, and Weslin wished that she would hurry up and punish him. Finally, when the tallest buildings pierced the sun's edge, mother shifted imperceptibly. "Why did you beat Vosa?"
Weslin squirmed in guilt and righteous anger. "He got into the work kit uncle gave me," he said, sharper than his wont. "He was trying to fit a stone up his nose."
"I know what he did," mother said, in that patient manner that said you were in for a lesson you don't want. "Why did you beat him?"
Weslin was silent, tumbling his thoughts through his mind to find the answer mother wanted. "I was mad," he said finally. "And I wanted to make sure he'd be too afraid to go in it again."
Mother nodded. "So, you will lead through fear, and teach with pain," she said calmly.
Weslin's head snapped up. "What? Mama, no!"
"Like a petty lordling-"
"No, not like that!"
"-Kicking a beggar. Or an overseer with a whip-"
"Mama!"
"-Flaying the slaves-"
"No, Mama, I'm not like that!"
"-beating them when they're not fast enough."
Weslin burst into frustrated, shamed, horrified tears. "Mama, I'm not!" he insisted through his sobs. "I'm not cruel, I'm not mean, I'm-" His words failed and he buried his face in his hands, his shoulders quaking.
Tiny, strong hands swept him into a warm lap and a gentle embrace. Weslin turned his face into mother's shoulder, crying like he was an infant, crying like Vosa cried when he was punished, and the comparison made him cry harder, ashamed of himself.
The sun was nearly gone when Weslin's tears finally abated. His eyes were gummy and his mind husked out, like a summer gourd. Mother's hand stroked his hair, gently soothing, and he bunched up her tunic up in his fist, an anchor to keep the world in place.
Mother's lips pressed against his cheek, and her voice murmured into his ear. "You will be large, like your father. You will be strong, and you must know this strength. The world is full of many too small and weak to help themselves, Weslin. Children. Slaves. Serfs with no learning. You will have all of the tools to teach and protect them. Remember this."
Weslin hiccuped. "I'll remember this, mama," he promised.
o o o
Weslin was vaguely aware of mother watching with pride, of father frowning but not overly perturbed. Weslin was aware, but he put them from his mind as he carefully, clumsily guided Vosa through winding coils of wire on a dowel to turn into links.
o o o Eleven o o o
Weslin paused to catch his breath, clutching a stitch in his ribs. The hinge pin on the front door had broken, and father had handed him the broken pin and a coin to buy a replacement. Their home was not in a bad part of town, but Weslin still did not want his sisters in a home with a broken door for any longer than necessary. So he had ran, all the way to the nearest smithy, hoping the smith could replace the simple pin quickly. Impatiently raking back curls that threatened to poke his eyes out, Weslin took a deep breath and opened the smithy door.
It was like opening an oven door. The wave of heat hit him in a smoky blast, making his eyes water. Coughing slightly, he stepped in, blinking in the hot atmosphere.
It was like walking into his own personal heaven.
Weslin gaped, open-mouthed, at the strong-armed apprentices clanging away at metal bars with hammers. Another young man was armed with a pair of tongs at an odd plate, drawing what Weslin realized was copper wire from holes in the plate. An ancient old man with even more mustaches than father was swinging a huge hammer, each blow carefully placed to shape a metal shield.
"Hey, what're you here for?"
Weslin looked up. A man somewhere between the sweating apprentices and the old man was looking down at him, hands on his hips. Weslin tried to speak, failed, and held up the broken pin instead.
The man took it, peering at the broken ends, then looked back at Weslin. "Wood door or stone?" he asked. Weslin felt like a fish out of water, gaping helplessly, and his eyes were drawn to a worker pouring molten metal from a crucible into a mold. "I asked you a question, boy," the man said, gruff but not unkind. "You simple?"
A prick to his pride brought Weslin back to his senses. "Wood," he said. "How do they get the fire hot enough to melt metal? A stove doesn't burn hot enough, or it would melt."
The man's eyes crinkled into a smile. "You want to find out?" he asked.
Weslin's heart leapt, then sank. "I can't today," he said, shaking his head. "Can, can I come back?"
The man clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to make his knees waver. "Of course. Anyone questions you, you tell them that Alren invited you."
o o o Twelve o o o
"And there were four of them!" Manya scolded, but her hands were gentle as she cleaned the scrapes on his arms. "Four! What were you thinking?"
Weslin shrugged, wincing as the motion pulled a strained muscle. "They were pushing around a kid," he said. "It wasn't right."
"He gave 'em a sporting target," Javell snorted, grinning at Weslin over Manya's shoulder.
"It was a serf's child," Manya pointed out, shaking her head. "Not worth the effort. I wonder what mama would think."
"She'd be proud," father spoke up, his grief-lined face smiling for the first time in several months. "As am I."
Manya's month snapped shut, and Weslin flushed.
o o o Fourteen o o o
"Absolutely not," Javell said flatly, folding his arms. "Papa wanted you to go to an academy. Maybe get a patronage. You've got so much potential, Weslin. Don't throw it away."
Javell was six years older, already a man, but Weslin was as tall and still growing, and he met his brother's eyes at a level. "I have a lot of potentials," he said. "Alren is offering me the one I want."
o o o Seventeen o o o
One of the new apprentices had a son. The child's mother was dead, and the man had no where to take him during the day. The boy spent most of his time in the tiny court yard, drawing pictures in the dirt, or running simple errands for the smithy.
Weslin watched the boy doodle with a burnt stick on the wall, half-napping during his short noon meal. The boy was intelligent but uneducated, constantly trying to figure things out. He'd probably follow his father into smithing, never expanding his boundaries beyond these stone walls. And he'd never go very far in the business itself, if he did not know his numbers well enough to bargain for supplies and prices.
It was... sad.
Weslin leaned forward, bracing his elbow on his knee. The dirt before him was probably too gritty for this, but he scratched out a few simple math problems with his finger tip. Then erased them and wrote new ones. And continued until the boy was crouched just out of reach, watching him.
Then his break was over.
He continued every day. Soon, the boy came over almost as soon as he entered the yard, watching him scratch and erase. A few times, the boy came near to speaking, but always stifled himself, biting his knuckle.
One day, Weslin sat down in his usual place, but didn't start to scratch in the dirt. The boy sat across from him, expectant at first, then increasingly fidgety. Weslin let him fidget. The break was nearly over when the boy finally spoke up. "Uh, sir?" he asked, hesitant and shy. "Why, um."
Weslin hid a smile in a shrug. "Why aren't I working problems?" he asked. The boy nodded eagerly. "Do you even know what I'm doing?"
The boy's brow furrowed, even as he blushed and looked away. "Numbers," he muttered. "I think. I know a little, enough to know that you're a lot smarter than I am."
Hooked. "Would you like to learn?" Weslin asked gently.
The boy's blush deepened. "'m a serf," he muttered. "Not allowed."
Weslin snorted. "Like hell you aren't," he said cheerfully. "Come on over."
o o o Eighteen o o o
Vosa took a calming breath before opening the door. The smithy always made him nervous, any time he came to visit, no matter how often he did. Too much heat, too much metal. but Alren knew him by sight and just waved him through. "Th'courtyard," Alren bellowed over the hiss of steam rising from heated metal. "Holding class."
Briefly confused, Vosa sketched a little bow and passed through the smithy, flinching back from a worker and his hammer blows. A cloud of steam obscured his vision, but then the courtyard door was half-familiar wood under his fingers, and he stepped out into the sunlight.
Five children sat around Weslin's feet, each focused with rapt attention on the charcoal marks Weslin was making on the wall. The ghosts of past lessons decorated the whitewash in rain-blurred streaks, and another smith was painfully obviously trying to pretend like he wasn't listening.
Weslin turned back to his tiny class, spotted Vosa, and grinned, waving at him to join them without losing stride.
o o o Twenty Five o o o
Arilin smiled and waved over her shoulder as she left the smithy. Weslin, distracted by the pretty merchant's daughter, placed his armload of wood into the basket by the forge and immediately stood up into a shelf. Barking a snarled curse, he gripped his head and sat heavily in a chair, the chair creaking warningly under his bulk.
No blood under his fingers. Just sparse hair and a splitting headache. Weslin grimaced and reached for a jug of water with his free hand. He'd moved out from under Alren's direct guidance, into a satelite smithy in another district with another journeyman and a pair of apprentices. Arilin was the daughter of a frequent customer, and the apprentices had begun to rib him about how often she did her father's business at the smithy. Especially when she came by afterhours like this, discussing business and the day's news with him as he cleaned and set out wood for the next day. Especially when some of the 'business' involved simple matters a servant could repair.
"Weslin!"
A harsh whisper, from one of the back alley windows. Weslin frowned and stood up, his water forgotten. He knew that voice, and they sounded scared.
No one was visible when he opened the shutters. Frown deepening, Welsin started to draw back, when movement caught his eye. An emancipated wraith crept from the shadows, bright, fearful eyes darting to every real or imagined threat. Sainu. A boy who had learned at his knee a few years ago. He hadn't stayed long, but he sent others to study in Alren's courtyard, badgering and cajoling younger children in the area to get what learning they could.
The Sainu before him now was a wasted husk of the wiry boy he'd been last they met. Heavy bandages swathed his forehead, and his dry, sunken cheeks hinted at many days without food or drink. The boy crept across the alley like a kicked cat and pressed against a barrel of rainwater, then finally looked at Weslin properly.
Fear. Angry, soul-sickened fear, the likes of which Weslin had never seen. Something unfair had shattered Sainu's world, and his suffering was driving him mad. Weslin drew a sharp breath and beckoned, pushing the shutter open wider. Sainu took a panicked look around and dove into the window, tucking and rolling neatly while Weslin pulled the shutters shut.
Sainu dove across the room and dropped the latch on the front door, then turned and sat against the door, breathing heavily. Weslin approached cautiously, stopping short at the sight of tears cutting pale tracks through Sainu's dirty cheeks. Sainu stared up at him, suspicion and gratitude and sickening fear mingling in his over-bright eyes. "I didn't trust anyone else," he whispered. "I am so sorry."
"You've done no wrong by me," Weslin said gently, motioning to the smithy's lone table. "Sit."
Sainu laughed, a harsh noise like a crow's caw, but he moved to the table anyway, fingering what Weslin suspected was a knife at his belt and jumping at shadows. He sat down and grabbed the water jug, downing half of the contents. Weslin watched him, silent and on the edge of his own seat. His concern for the boy not withstanding, Sainu was haunted, soul-sick - and dangerous.
When Sainu sat down the jug, there were fresh tears on his face, and he gave Weslin a sardonic grin that nearly broke the blacksmith's heart. "You'll change your mind," he croaked, laughing and crying. "You'll change. And you'll turn me in to the Wyld Hunt and get a reward and marry your merchant sweetheart as a hero. And I'll die."
Weslin swallowed thickly. Anathema. What else could Sainu be referencing?
Sainu made a sweeping gesture that seemed to include the whole world. "And what did I do to deserve it?" he demanded. "I killed a man. A man cruising the streets, looking for orphans to turn into whores. I've seen him before, I know what kind of work he does. We fought, and merchants came to help him. As if he deserved helping! As if what he was doing was okay! Filthy bastards were probably his customers. I killed him, and one other, and screamed-" He went silent for a moment, staring into his lap.
"It was my voice, but not my voice," Sainu continued quietly, the words tumbling over themselves. "Something- something so much more than me, condemning them in the name of the Sun. I wasn't screaming, I, I was thundering at them, like a storm. I started to glow, and they ran. I hid it as best I could, waiting for the glow to die down, but they know I'm in the city somewhere. I think one of them trailed me to this district, but either he's better than I am or I lost him." He shuddered, shoulders almost as wide as a man's heaving beneath the rags he wore. "What did I do to deserve this?" he whispered.
Weslin sighed through his nose, mind whirling. Anathema! Kind, brilliant Sainu, an Anathema. It was inconceivable, impossible. Was Sainu's worship of the Immaculate Dragons a farce? Had he made a pact with dark powers to save the orphans he cared for? "Did you do anything to deserve it?" he asked.
Sainu shook his head, not the violent denial of the guilty, but the resignation of the innocent but unbelieved. "If killing a child-pimp is the price for this, I'll accept it," he spat. "But I-" He bit his lip, thinking. "It feels right, Weslin. There's a light in my soul, under everything, and it burns, but it's right. I don't know what I am, but I don't feel like an agent of dark powers." He reached up and pulled off the bandages on his head. In the center of his forehead was a dull glitter, like gold imbedded under his skin, forming a simple sunburst motif. "It feels like the sun itself is in my heart," he said, looking Weslin steadily in the eyes. "And if the sun is a dark power, you may as well kill me now."
Weslin sighed again and stood, pacing in the small space at the front of the shop. Questions, theories, fears, doubt, conviction; a violent maelstrom of emotion and thought. Nothing he'd ever heard precedented this. Every Anathema he'd heard of was a dangerous enemy of the Realm, an agent of black power and terrible design. Not a boy protecting his fellows. Not a pious worshiper. Not an almost-man Weslin would have been proud to have for a son.
Not like Sainu.
Weslin stopped pacing and returned Sainu's steady gaze. "I believe you," he said firmly.
A knock at the door.
Weslin swore. Sainu whirled from his seat, melting into the shadows at the rear of the darkened smithy. Weslin debated ignoring the caller, but a voice called for him. Someone knew he was still there.
"Thanule! How long has it been, my friend?" The man beaming up at him set Weslin's stomach somewhere near his lungs. Grav was a petty merchant from the district he'd been raised in, a scam artist constantly trying to offload questionable goods on Alren as scrap metal. Despite his jovial greetings, his suspicious eyes scanned the smithy behind Weslin. After a moment, when Weslin did not move or invite him in, his smile faltered slightly. "Well?" he demanded. "Can I enter?"
"I was just leaving; we are closed for the evening," Weslin answered, stepping through the door and forcing Grav to back off with his presence alone. Grav looked briefly, viciously, annoyed, but he smoothed it away with little effort. Weslin raised a brow at the man. "Was there something you need?" he asked.
Grav looked around, his attempt at being subtle only increasing his obviousness. "Down here," he hissed, waving Weslin towards an alley. When Weslin hesitated, Grav stamped his foot. "You're in danger, you big ox! Come here."
Weslin briefly entertained the idea of shoving Grav inside of a nearby refuse bin. Instead, he took a calming breath and followed Grav between the smithy and the business next door. They paused just around the corner from the window Sainu had climbed in, Grav nervously eager and Weslin fast losing patience. "What am I in danger of?" he demanded.
"Sh!" Grav hissed, louder than Weslin had spoken. "You'll give us away!"
Weslin folded his arms, but heard a noise that turned his heart to lead. His shutters opening. Before he could react, Grav darted around the corner, something short and sharp glittering in his hand. Weslin shouted some sort of denial, following Grav, but he was too late. Grav was already halfway inside the window Sainu was trying to escape from, Sainu was already on the floor, the blood on the floor was already too thick and heavy. Grav pulled himself the rest of the way in, slumping to the floor beside Sainu's corpse, a pained grin on his face and his hand pressed over a wound in his side. "Told you," Grav said.
Weslin stepped up onto the window sill and carefully into the room, avoiding the puddle of blood. He frantically scanned sainu for any signs of life, already knowing he wouldn't find any. Too much blood, too many stab wounds in his neck and chest. Grav was viper-fast.
Grav staggered to his knees, leaning heavily against the anvil. "Anathema!" he crowed. "Can you believe it? He killed an honest merchant, glowing with devil-fire the whole time. I've been tracking him for nearly a season now." He tipped Weslin a conspiratorial wink. "Bet I can get a reward from the Dynast for taking him out."
Weslin knelt and took Sainu's knife from his lax hand. It was one he'd made, when he was just an apprentice, for Sainu's older brother. His thoughts were a sick churning inside his head, a blanket of shock rudely shoved away in favor of hot anger that swelled like a tide.
"What're you looking so sad for?" Grav demanded. "He's Anathema, look!" He grabbed Sainu's hair and shook, the mark on Sainu's head glittering faintly in the wan light from the window. "A monster. I know, he probably told you story to gain your sympathy; I heard you talking to him. But he was after your soul, Thanule. But he's dead now. I saved you."
Dead. Sainu, who could have charmed the Empress herself, dead at the hands of a piddling con-man. Dead with the sun in his heart and the threat of the Dynast like a guillotine overhead. Weslin dropped the knife.
Grav tried to stand and slipped in the blood, landing on his rear with a grimace. "Snap out of it," he ordered. "I'm hurt. Go get a healer." Weslin didn't move, and Grav stretched out his foot to kick him in the shin, leaving a bloody footprint on his calf. "Thanule! Hurry up and go!"
"You killed a child of the sun," Weslin said softly.
Grav paled. "What did you say?"
Rage, sorrow, pain. A storm boiled in his heart, clouding his thoughts, tightening his fists, but he was sure of this, he was sure. "He was a child of the sun," Weslin repeated, looking at Grav. "And you killed him."
Grav leaned back, pressing against the anvil. "He was a monster, Thanule! Anathema! What did you expect me to do?"
Father, shaking his head, 'Not all can be taught.' Mother, sitting on the highest branch of a tree, holding his hand, 'Your heart is the best guide you can ask for.' And a beam, like the last flare of a setting sun, burning away his confused turmoil, leaving behind only the knowledge that Grav was wrong in this, that Sainu hadn't been cursed, but something so much more.
Fire in his veins and sun in his head and light in the smithy. Grav shrank back, kicking at the floor in a vain, terrified attempt to shove himself through the anvil, his mouth working noiselessly. Weslin stepped over Sainu's corpse and picked up Grav by the neck, snapping his spine with a snap of his wrist.
The sun in his head flared, retreated, whispered deep into his mind, 'You have work to do.'
o o o
Arilin his brothers his sisters mother father uncle everyone around and behind and before all smiles all welcoming he is a hero he is a king 'Welcome back Weslin how many heads of monsters have you brought us?'
He looks into his arms and there are heads heads so many heads of children and beggars and they all have sunbursts between their brows and maggots in their eyes and Sainu looks up at him 'Why am I dead I am a sun-child like you why why why' and his own head is next to Sainu screaming with a silent tongue and he drops them down down down he is falling falling fall-
A mountain swallows him. There is music.
She is pale, thin, sour. But her arms are corded with wiry muscle and gauntlets that glow like fire cover her hands. She leans over the largest anvil he's ever seen, her hammer pounding at an intricate, curved blade and her forehead glows with a circle half-filled. Like his own.
Where am I?
She looks up at him, snorts, goes back to her work. "The star-bitches promised me a vision of you," she says. "Didn't think you'd be here so soon. My end must be near." It is a cavern, lit by floating baubles of light. Forges glow around her, and work tables stretch away into the distance. At her throat is a red stone. She looks up at him again, a critical eye sizing him up. "You're bigger than I expected. Maybe my son has something that fits you. I make weaponry, not armor."
Where am I? Who are you?
She gestures, swinging the heavy hammer like it weighs nothing. "My forge," she says. "My home." She places one last blow on the blade and dunks it into a nearby barrel of water. "And I am your past."
What are you? What am I?
She looks surprised, contemplative. "I wonder how the world shall change so much," she murmurs, hanging the blade on a rack. "That one of the Solars does not know his own fate."
Solar?
"You are the chosen of the Unconquered Sun," she says flatly, placing her fiery fists on her hips. "A god among men who shall lead the world. A scholar. A creator. A blacksmith to the stars." She waves a hand. "I am wasting time. Follow the path to the mountain village. They'll guide you from there."
What path? Which village?
"You'll know. Get going."
Wait!
Music Sunlight
Moonbeams A mountain in the distance
A path of stars
An old man
"They'll remember me."
A young man
The anvil
Rising darkness
Destiny
"They better, anyway."
The forge Dreamscapes
A hammer
Day
Weslin sat up, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. It was rare for him to remember his dreams, but he had a feeling he'd never forget this one. He still didn't know where the path or the mountain were, but he was pretty sure he could find them.
o o o Twenty Six o o o
The town leader was a younger man than Weslin would have thought, hard-eyed and quiet. He put up Weslin for the night in his own home, serving a simple but hearty soup for dinner and not saying much. Weslin allowed the man his silence and helped where Naril would let him.
Stacking the night's wood by the fire, Weslin was aware of Naril watching his every move, studying him intently. Weslin finished stacking and sat on the low stool his host had provided, dusting his hands absently against his leg.
"Why are you here?"
Almost more words than Naril had said all day. Weslin studied the other man carefully. Naril was... nervous. Not afraid of him, simply nervous. Weslin wondered why. "I'm searching for something," he said. He paused, debating, then shrugged. Naril seemed trustworthy. "A path lined with stars."
Naril took a slow breath, his hands tightening on his knees. "Why?" he demanded.
Naril knew something. Weslin leaned forward. "You know where it is," he said; a statement, not a question.
Naril's eyes hardened to cold flint. "Why?" he said again.
Weslin held Naril's eyes for a long moment. When the other man didn't back down, Weslin sighed through his nose. "A dream led me here," he said, not wanting to share any more details than he had to.
Naril's eyes flickered briefly to Weslin's forehead. "I cannot let anyone on the path without proof," he said.
"What proof?" Weslin asked, though he was fairly certain he knew.
Naril only looked at him. Weslin debated. It was a risk, even in the Threshold, where the Realm's reach was thin. But if Naril knew where the path to Her forge was, he'd take the risk. Closing his eyes, Weslin reached for the sunset gleam that bathed his soul and took hold, concentrating.
When he opened his eyes, Naril was bathed in light Weslin knew came from himself. The man took a steadying breath and looked at the floor between his feet. "I will take you there at dawn," he said quietly. "You must reach the cave at sunset. Any earlier, you will not find it. Any later, creatures in the mountains will eat your bones." He fixed Weslin with a last hard look. "Even if you do bear-" A nod at Weslin's head. "That mark, that does not mean the cave will open for you. If you are not the right One, the mountain will kill you."
"I understand."
o o o
Weslin breathed a quick prayer to the White Dragon. Even if he was Anathema, sun-child, blasphemy, whatever, he certainly hoped that the Dragon wouldn't take it out on him while he was halfway up a narrow mountain path.
But it was the star-path. Glittering discs set into the ground directed him along the correct path, each slightly curved and engraved with writing he didn't recognize. The path wound back and forth, staying on the western face of the mountain, lost in shadow until the noon sun cleared the mountain summit. Then the glittering discs became mirror-bright beacons, impossible to miss, but they also grew further and further apart. It didn't take him long to catch the trick of finding one and watching the mountain until the sun moved enough to light up the next, then hurrying to that one. Sometimes, the wait was so short that he didn't dare lose any time resting. Sometimes, it was so long he despaired having missed the next mark. But he made progress as the day did, climbing higher and higher above the town.
The path widened out just as the sun was starting to lose strength, threatening to dip behind the next mountain in the chain. Weslin desperately scanned the path ahead for another beacon, hoping that the trick he'd used was right, and was nearly blinded when the wall beside him seemed to light on fire. Stepping back blindly, he nearly went over the path edge, windmilling over open air for a terrifying second.
He wrenched himself back to solid ground and fell to his knees, heart thudding in his chest. The fire was dying down, and he looked up. What appeared to be thirty feet of nearly sheer wall was imbedded with gold flecks that formed an elaborate sun mandala, each angled to catch the last light of the sun. The mandala was clearly split down the middle.
Examination revealed no mechanism to open the door, though he did find the hairline crack of the seam. Pressing his forehead against the door did nothing, nor did flaring his power around him. None of the few tools he had would fit into the crack, and there was no keyhole he could see. Frustrated, with the light fading fast around him, he leaned against the door, thumping it with his fist.
The door swung in, nearly spinning him to the ground.
A narrow throat of stone scarcely taller than he was greeted him. Weslin stepped in warily, squinting in the gloom. As soon as he cleared the door, it swung shut behind him, clapping him into darkness. With a yell, he leapt back at the door, clawing at the surface. Polished smooth, with nothing to gain traction on.
He was trapped.
Huffing in annoyance, Weslin concentrated and flared his power out, lighting the passage. The light revealed what his fingers had already told him; the door was perfectly smooth. Except it wasn't. There were the faintest of marks near the seam, less dents than scuff marks, about as high as his belly. Or chest high for Her. Weslin reached out and thunked his knuckles against the stone, and hurriedly stepped back as the door swung open.
Interesting. He wondered what powered it.
The door swung shut again, and Weslin turned his back to it, slowly following the path deeper into the mountain. The tunnel was smooth, decorated with a lovely flame motif carved into the walls, and sloped gently down. After fifty or sixty feet, the floor ended in a series of steps, and the walls disappeared to either side. Peering into the gloom, Weslin flared his power out further.
A floating ball of metal just before him flickered and burst into flame. The flame arced out, jumping from ball to ball, gradually lighting the cavern he'd seen in his dream. It seemed equal parts the work of both nature and man, a seven-sided floor smoothing seamlessly into rough walls and a ceiling of stalactites. The stairs led down to the raised center of the floor, where a familiar anvil waited. Scattered across the floor was crumbled stone and broken, petrified wood; the remnants of the forges and work tables he'd seen. Not natural decay, he realized. The furnishings had been shattered by tool and hand.
The place was warm. Almost unnaturally so. Stooping briefly, Weslin pressed his hand to the floor. Banked heat met his skin, and he stood with a thoughtful frown. Volcanic.
A pale shimmer surrounded the anvil, flickering briefly against his skin before it disappeared. Resting on the anvil itself was a suit of ruddy-gold banded armor and a huge war hammer of the same hue. Floating in the air above the anvil was an amulet set with a red stone, the same he'd seen Her wearing. Of the beautiful fire-gauntlets, there was no sign.
He touched the armor, then picked up a greave, examining it carefully. Orichalcum. He'd handled it once, when he was just an apprentice and Alren had received a commission from a very wealthy client. A governor's ransom sat on the anvil before him, gleaming in the light of the floating balls. And eying it, he realized it would fit him almost perfectly.
The thought brought him pause. Just what was he planning on doing with such armament? He wasn't entirely sure. Protecting himself from the Realm's agents, certainly, but what of other Anathema? Clearly, not all of them had made deals with dark powers; was he not an example of such? And he was certain that many, like poor, doomed Sainu, were too young and impoverished to escape as he had.
He had spent much of his life protecting and helping those smaller and weaker than he was. Perhaps he could do the same for those of this strange new race he'd found himself a part of. Mulling the idea over, he reached out and grasped the floating amulet.
o o o
Naril watched the mountain for a long time after the sun set, hoping against hope that the huge sun-lit stranger would return. Four sun-children had appeared in town since his birth. All four had climbed the star-path, but none had returned. His faith in the inevitable arrival of the Hammer of the Sun had led to the town choosing him as a leader, their holy guide down the trail of life, and the guide to the path of stars for those who might be worthy.
The Immaculate Order was known to them, but no monks had ever come to convert them to worship the Dragons. Their town, a small but profitable trading hub for many nearby villages, was too little and too isolated to bother with. He doubted they existed on few, if any, of the Realm's maps.
A creak of old bones behind him. Old Raj, the former leader and his own mentor, come to stand at his side. "So," the old man said. "He was a sun-child."
Naril nodded once. "And I fear I sent him to his death. The mountain guardians will rip him apart."
Raj clapped him on the shoulder and didn't answer, watching the mountain with him. Encouraging words were useless. The records went back far; sun-children had arrived in the village many times over the centuries, and none had returned from the harsh mountain. More had come since Naril's birth than had appeared over entire centuries before, and Naril took this as a sign. The records hinted at a time when the sun-children had walked Creation openly, and their increased frequency was both heartening and troubling.
Suddenly, the entire mountain shuddered. A few screams rose from the town as people and objects fell. The screams did not stop, however; they rose from the mountain as well, in a shrieking cacophony of unholy noise. The mountain guardians were awake.
Naril stared in horror for a brief moment, then turned and ran into the town. "To arms! The guardians walk!" Men ran from all directions, pale and resolute. All knew of the dangers of raising the guardians from their rest, and all were willing to try and drive the monstrous creations back to their resting places.
Occasionally, the records indicated that it worked.
By the time Naril made it back to the edge of the town, the shambling clockwork monsters were visible. Three huge forms stood silhouetted against the early morning sky, shrieking in horrid artificial harmony. Each was twice as tall as a man, and each was - according to the records - programmed to defend the mountain. But they were ancient, and Naril suspected they were beginning to break down and lose their programming. They attacked the town very rarely, once every two or three generations, but the damage they wreaked was horrid.
The townsmen formed a line between the monsters and the buildings, pale-faced and most in their night clothes with armor thrown haphazardly on top. Naril drew his sword, swallowing a thick lump of despair. The sun-child had failed, and his failure would kill many of the townspeople before the guardians staggered back to their mountain caves.
A gleam from further up the mountain caught Naril's eye. Something bright was descending the mountain at an incredible rate. The guardians turned and screamed at the distraction, clearly agitated. The townsmen held, unsure.
The glow reached the last cliff face above the town and leapt, resolving itself to be the sun-child, wreathed in flame. He came down on the guardian nearest him, swinging a sledge the size of a child at the creature's tiny head. It staved in with a hollow crump, and its body slowly fell to the ground.
The other two guardians shrieked again and closed in on the sun-child. He ducked their lumbering attacks and smashed the leg of one, causing it to fall to the ground. It was still alive, however, and dragged itself towards the sun-child as he turned towards the still-standing guardian.
Naril bit his lip and ran forward, jamming his sword into the shoulder-joint of the guardian's reaching arm. The guardian shrieked and flailed, knocking him aside with its good arm. But it didn't reach the sun-child, who imploded the other guardian's chest with his hammer, then turned and smashed the head of the one on the ground.
o o o
Weslin clutched a stitch in his side, leaning on his maul and trying to not breathe in ragged gasps. A day's trip up the mountain had taken him an hour to descend, leaping cliffs and sliding down the steepest embankments he dared. He'd seen the lumbering machines on his way up the mountain, quiet and still half way up, but not until he left the forge did they stir. They weren't visible from the forge entrance, but he'd had a pretty good idea what the terrible screams echoing from the dark were.
Catching his breath, he turned towards the townspeople. And went very, very still. They were all on the ground, kneeling with their foreheads pressed into the dirt. Even Naril, who was in obvious pain, blood darkening his shirt on one side.
Weslin hesitated, then crouched at Naril's side. "You're hurt," he said.
"My Lord," Naril said, not looking up. "My injuries, they are-" He swallowed. "They are nothing."
"Like hell. Get off the ground. You don't have to bow to me."
"But-" Naril's protest was broken when Weslin grabbed him by the arm on his good side and pulled him to his feet. Naril stumbled, and Weslin caught him around the waist, supporting him easily. "My Lord!" Naril protested sharply. "This- I do not deserve your help!"
Weslin frowned down at the man. "This morning, I was a 'sun child'," he said, almost wounded. "Tonight, I am Anathema?"
Naril's eyes widened, and he shook his head. "No, My Lord, you are- I am not worthy of your help any more."
Weslin raised a brow, and started marching Naril towards the village. "Whatever you think I am," he said firmly. "Everyone is 'worthy' of my help."
o o o
Weslin leaned forward in his chair, studying his hands. "A god?"
Naril nodded, wincing as he did so. "The Hammer of the Sun. Only the Hammer could claim the mountain forge. We've been awaiting your return to Creation."
Weslin ran his hand over his balding pate. "I'm a blacksmith from Cherak," he said patiently."Not a, a god."
Neril leaned forward and tapped Weslin's forehead. "The sun chose you," he said. "I do not know what you are, not really. Only that the sun chose you, and you claimed the forge. As far as we are concerned, you are our god."
Weslin snorted. "So, I am-what? The village spirit, to be venerated on once a year?"
Naril shrugged. "If you chose," he said. "We do not follow the Immaculate Order here. We believe in gods to be worshiped, not spirits to be revered in Order-approved ways on Order-approved days. If you like, we can celebrate every year, or every season, or every moon." He shrugged, allowing almost a smile on his face. "If you want nothing to do with it, I will pick dates and try my best to emulate and teach what I've seen of you thus far."
"I don't know if I want it to exist at all," Weslin said dubiously.
Naril sighed dramatically, just as old Raj entered the room, carrying a huge wooden box banded in steel. "That's too bad," he said, as Raj set the box down at Weslin's feet. "After all, we are supposed to give these to our god. If you deny it, we'd have to take them back."
Raj opened the box. Nestled within were the scarlet gloves She had worn in his dream. The forge gloves.
Weslin narrowed his eyes at Naril, who was almost smiling. "You're trying to bribe me into it," he accused.
Naril shrugged. "They're yours, either way," he said off-hand. "But they'll remind you, every day you wear them, that we've consecrated the ground where the guardians lie, and that we hold a feast this day every year, in your name. If you're going to deny us, do you really want to take them?"
o o o Twenty Seven o o o
"Over there," Weslin ordered without looking up, scratching out his accounts on a piece of slate. His two apprentices - young men from Anvil's Rest, both pious and eager to learn - struggled in with a heavy load of raw iron. The forge in Nexus was small but quickly gaining a good reputation for the quality of weaponry he turned out. He was on a fast track to becoming a known specialist, and already city guides were dropping his name after only a minimal bribe.
The gauntlets were brought out only very rarely from their hiding spot above the forge. He was not yet absolutely sure what the things were, but he'd found enough information to know that they were powerful creations that many beings would love to get their hands on. Best to keep them secret. As well as the goremaul, and he kept his amulet hid beneath his working apron.
The door creaked open. Weslin Thanule, the Hammer of the Sun, looked up to greet his next customer.
o o o