The chest of ebonite, the mirror, and a rough-spun sack materialized from seemingly nowhere, resting on the sharp obsidian ground before us. I picked up the mirror, and Azazel grabbed the sack.
“Are those her hands?” I asked, catching a whiff of something that made my gag reflex kick in.
He shook the bag. “Yes. He didn’t specify what condition they needed to be in.”
I made a guttural noise, swallowing hard and turning my head for a whiff of ashen air to wash away the reek of decay.
Wayland was inside his hut, and I knocked on the wooden frame before pulling the curtain aside. He was bent over the anvil, hammering at a misshapen lump of metal. The hut was even more packed now, with barely room for me to fit inside.
“We’re back, with your mirror, her hands, and the ebonite.”
The centipede-like demon dropped his hammer, tossed the lump aside, and gestured for me to come forward. “Bring it, woman, bring it in!”
I carefully held out the mirror and he snatched it up, gripping it with several hands. His ruby eye flashed as he looked it over.
“Just as beautiful as the day it was made.” He hung it reverently on the only bare spot on the wall. “Now where are my hands?”
I stepped out of the way just in time. He barreled through the door, flinging the cloth aside. “Hands?”
Azazel stepped forward, offering the ripe-smelling bag.
Wayland tore it open and shook a rotting hand into his palm. He examined it just as intently as he had the mirror, and let out a loud “Hah!” when he was done.
Then he threw the hand in the lava. It caught fire, blackening as it slowly swallowed by the magma flow. The bag, with the other hand inside it, followed it.
I stared at the spot where they’d vanished. “Why did you want them if you were just going to set them on fire?”
“Oh, I just wanted to see the bitch burn.” He wiped his hands, looking satisfied. “I wouldn’t have asked you to transport her head. That’d make for a disgusting trip.”
“Oh, yeah, her disembodied, rotting hands weren’t any less disgusting,” I muttered, but the smith wasn’t listening, fortunately.
“And this is the ebonite?” He flipped the lock and opened the chest, letting out a happy sound. “I knew she was still hoarding it.”
He plucked a piece of raw ebonite out and peered at it through the ruby, then dropped it back in the chest. I reached into my pocket, found the small piece Visionary Xrita had given me, and dropped it in next to the other pieces. Even in a pocket warmed by my body, it was as cold as if it’d been laying in snow.
“Beautiful, beautiful,” he murmured, running his hands over the pieces. Then his eyes snapped up towards me. “Now come in, let’s discuss the final product.”
I stepped forward as Wayland gathered the chest, and he raised one of his numerous hands as Azazel stepped forward. “The commissioner only, please.”
I glanced over my shoulder and shrugged at the mutinous looks on their faces. “I’ll be right back out.”
I followed the smith back into the hut, lifting my wings high to avoid dragging them over any errant blades.
Wayland dropped the chest on a drafting table with a heavy bang. “So, you’re still wanting an inverse sword.”
I hesitated before nodding, long enough that the smith saw my reluctance.
Something had been gnawing on my mind since the Visionary had given me her prediction, an idea that had taken root with her words and had blossomed the longer I dwelled on the raw ebonite.
“Is what you told us about the essence of ebonite true?” I asked. “That you can create a concept from it?”
Wayland squinted at me. “Right. I could take this here ebonite-” he patted the chest fondly, “-and make, say, a sword meant to kill devils. Or a chain that could bind an angel. Or…”
His eyes shifted to the window, where Tascius was visible. His back was to us and his hair up, displaying the rough scars limning his spine.
I jerked at a pinch of pain in my wing, and my head jerked back towards the smith. He held up one of my small feathers, spinning it between two fingers.
“I could use one of these,” he whispered slyly. “And all this metal would want to fly.”
My breath was shallow.
A sword was only a sword.
A feather was more than a feather.
I could take the straight and obvious path- have Wayland the Smith forge the inverse sword.
Or I could take a leap of faith, even without seeing the bottom of the drop, and hopefully find the happiness the Visionary spoke of.
After all, if a sword was a sword, and I’d held the Sword of Light once, I could do it again. For me, it was… just a sword. If I understood the Visionary right, I didn’t need the inverse.
At the very least, I should take the hint fate seemed to be offering me.
A feather was more than a feather; it was hope. It was giving up something I could use for my plans to make someone I loved happy.
I met the smith’s eyes across the anvil and nodded. He spun the feather again, a slow smile splitting his face.
“I will call for you when this beauty is done,” he said, and seemed to forget my presence immediately, rifling through the chest of ebonite and selecting certain pieces.
I left his hut, my chest tight. It was impossible to feel like I hadn’t somehow betrayed everything we worked for on a certain level, but I hoped they’d understand.
All I wanted was for everyone to be happy and whole again.
And if I needed to risk touching the Sword of Light again, then so be it. Maybe it’d find me pure of heart and accept my touch again.
Maybe it’d burn me to ashes on the spot.
I glanced down at my scarred palm as we flew. I didn’t think it would. Maybe it was a
