As they neared the water, another woman approached, ducking out of the largest of the tents. She was wide-hipped and full of breast. She straightened and shuffled toward them. Her head tilted slackly to one side, a trickle of drool hanging from her lower lip. She carried an infant in her arms, cradled to those ample breasts. From the swaddling, a bald crown of head shone pink as the child suckled.
Pupp, who had been hanging close, moved to her ankles, flaring brighter as his hackles raised.
The woman stepped before them and pulled the babe from her breast. She lifted it, as if offering the child to them. It appeared to be an ordinary babe. Milk dribbled from plump lips. Rosy cheeks shone, well fed and hale.
But then those eyes opened and destroyed the illusion.
An ancient wickedness shone forth, born of too sharp an intelligence. There was a leering quality to the glint.
Dart bit back a gasp.
“Wyrd Bennifren,” Tylar said formally.
The babe wiped milky spittle from his lips with a pudgy arm. “You look like rotted shite, Tylar.” The voice was reedy and thin-childlike but far from childish. It made the hairs on Dart’s body quiver with revulsion. “Crook-backed and hobbling. Not much of a godslayer now.”
“Either way, here I am. We’ve come to offer terms for the knowledge you possess.”
“You bring the skull, then?” the child asked hungrily.
From the side, Krevan answered, “A piece of it. All that is left. The rest was destroyed in fires up in Saysh Mal.”
“That was not our agreement, Raven ser Kay.”
“Our agreement, by your sworn word as the free leader of the Wyrdling clans, was to bring you all that remains of Keorn, son of Chrism. So we have done. You must honor your bargain.”
The babe sneered, a frightening expression on such a small face, like a sewer rat given human countenance. “Then let us be done with the matter.” He turned to study Tylar up and down. “It seems this is a night to settle many debts. Follow me.” Guided by some silent signal, the slack-jawed woman heaved around like a foundering ship and headed off along the flooded bank. Babe and woman rounded a cluster of rocks to reveal a fire blazing amid a circle of standing stones.
Dart glanced to them. Dancing firelight revealed cryptic marks inscribed into the stones’ faces. She recognized them from historical texts back at school. It was the old human written language, all straight lines, little warmth, guttural in appearance.
Wyrd Bennifren led them to logs rolled close to the fire. Flagons of ale and fresh water waited, along with carved bowls piled high with spiced dry meats, hard cheeses, and strange berries as crimson as blood. It was a bountiful fare for such a dreadful gathering in a dark, flooded wood.
Still, bellies did not judge.
Once they were settled in, Krevan spoke around a mouthful of rabbit. “You swore to know more about the rogue god Keorn. Secrets of interest to us, to the girl.” He nodded to Dart. “The Black Flaggers waged significant resources to discover Keorn’s fate and to bring you a piece of that god. It is time for you to make full payment.”
“The Wyr honor their bonded word,” Bennifren said. He was nestled in the dull woman’s lap. One hand pawed her teat, half absently, half lasciviously. “But I also know that you’ve already gleaned much about Keorn on your journey out and back. Still, there are more secrets known only to us. Secrets whispered in the ear of the raving, thought never to be repeated.”
“Spoken to whom?” Tylar asked.
“This one’s mother, for one,” Bennifren said, his gaze drifting to Dart. “It can be lonely when you’re the only sighted man in a world full of the blind. That was Keorn. He bore some special Grace that kept him at the edge of raving but never beyond.”
Tylar shared a silent glance with Rogger. Both were careful not to look at Brant. Better the Wyr didn’t know about his stone.
“But even a god has needs,” Bennifren said. He tugged hard on the woman’s nipple, earning a yip of surprise that quickly subsided back to dullness again. “Like when he bedded that godling’s mother. He told her many things, secret things that he thought she would forget when the ravings took hold again. But when his seed took root, he protected her, sheltered her with his steadying Grace. During that time, balanced on that fine edge of madness, she whispered his secrets. And we were there, listening, drawn by the rare birth.”
Dart shivered despite the fire’s warmth. He was speaking about her birth.
“What sort of secrets?” Tylar asked.
Bennifren grinned with malicious delight. “Secrets about a father and son at odds.”
“Chrism and his son?”
Bennifren nodded to Tylar. “I’ve heard what the daemon claimed when you confronted him in Chrismferrry last year. How it was Chrism himself who forged Rivenscryr in their old world, wielded it during a great war there, and in doing so, accidentally split his world, sundered land and people, casting them adrift to settle here as flesh, naethryn, and aethryn.”
“So he claimed.”
“And it was just that… a claim. While all was true about the Sundering, what was not true was that Chrism forged your sweet sword.”
Tylar’s hand drifted to the gold hilt.
“Chrism had a lust for power, and he candled those desires in the reflections of sword blades. He constructed a private smithy where he designed and forged weapons of great edge and balance.” Bennifren pointed a pink finger at the other blade on Tylar’s belt. “Who do you think designed the shape and form of your knightly swords?”
Rogger nodded. “He’s right there. It was Chrism. According to ancient texts. He offered that first sword to the last human king, the one who founded the shadowknights, as thanks and a bond between them. All other swords were patterned after that first.”
“So you see,” Bennifren said, “a heart’s desire is not so easy to shed. Even after he was sundered, Chrism’s desire was too large to split away entirely. His fascination with swords. Perhaps that’s why his aspect of Grace, once settled, revealed a heart of loam. A love not so much of root and leaf as of iron and ore.”
Tylar stared at the two swords on his hip. “So Chrism had nothing to do with Rivenscryr’s actual forging?”
“Exactly. He only wielded the sword-or perhaps it wielded him, in the end. It was a weapon too powerful, beyond his understanding.”
“Then who forged it?” Krevan asked, clearly perturbed.
Bennifren’s ancient eyes looked upon Dart slyly. But she already knew the truth. The way her blood ignited the sword, her blasted heritage-there could only be one answer.
“It was my father,” Dart said.
All eyes turned for confirmation to the small Wyr-lord. He seemed to enjoy their shock. “Like father, like son. It seemed the passion for the blade was passed to the son. But it was not the power of the sword that fascinated Keorn as much as it was the artistry of the honed blade. His passion lay in seeking the perfect sword. That he got from his mother, for a son is only half his father. His mother inspired him equally, gifting him with a questioning mind, a love for knowledge, and an appreciation for hidden secrets. At her knee, he was taught arcane rites, and in turn, he forged powerful insights and secrets into the steel of the sword, creating a formidable weapon like no other.”
“And Chrism stole it,” Tylar said.
“How could he not? His lust overcame his caution. He used it during the war and sundered everything in his ignorance.”
Bennifren then smiled, showing his toothless gums. “And therein lies a good lesson. You must be careful how far you reach. Better to be large here.” He tapped his head. “And have shorter arms. Keeps one wiser where one reaches.”
Krevan sighed, his face tight with irritation. “So the rogue forged the Godsword. What does any of this-?”
Bennifren raised his tiny arm, silencing the pirate. “Patience is also a virtue of the wise.” He turned to the others. “For you see, Keorn wanted no part of his father’s war, and he certainly did not want his perfect creation
