A Promise of Iron by Brandon McCoy (best free ebook reader TXT) 📗

The sword’s name was Sethelyn, but I didn’t need to read the blade’s letters to know that. I knew the sword by another name, Little Prince; it was a blade I had used many times when training with Crylwin. The sword was heavy, a true Roharan long sword. It was not as heavy as Adamant but far heavier than my own blade. Golmere rarely used so large a weapon, favoring light swords to complement their natural speed and slight frames. I did not know how the prime came to possess the blade, but I smiled knowing that eventually, his arms would tire as mine so often did, and when they did, I would be there.

I moved back into Wind stance, baiting him to remain in Tower. I wanted him to attack, to swing and swing wildly, I would be at a disadvantage defending his heavy strikes while in Wind, but it was a risk I had to take. I made a lazy lunge, one easily blocked, but one that would still require him to move the sword down. Ros joined in as well, stabbing forward and prompting the prime to spin around and meet the strike with his dagger.

I needed Ros in on the plan, but I couldn’t risk the prime knowing Cyllian, so I searched my mind for a word, something in Illyrian that Ros would understand. “Iieia!” I shouted, knowing it roughly translated as tired.

Ros didn’t seem to notice, so I called out again louder this time. He looked at me, and I pointed to the prime just as I dodged another of his strikes. Ros stabbed forward again, but he was slow, and his thrust sloppy. The prime leapt at it and swept his blade across only for Ros to pull back and change the angle of his strike at the last moment, meeting the back of the prime’s weapon and sending him stumbling off balance. Ros charged forward and stabbed, but the prime rolled onto the ground so deftly that he was back on the balls of his feet in an instant. The creature dropped his dagger and came up with his free hand held out towards the burning granary.

I heard a creak and a loud snap then watched in horror as a large section of the wooden framework came crashing down like a falling star. He could weave more than just iron.

Ros jumped away, rolling onto his side as he cleared the wreckage. He pushed himself onto his feet; blood had soaked through the makeshift bandage and was running freely down his leg. He lifted his sword; it trembled with fatigue. I charged forward, desperate, foolish. I stabbed once, twice, then saw his open hand come around towards me.

I didn’t feel the shard pierce my flesh, but I felt its impact as it slammed into my gut. I felt breathless like the air had been knocked out of me. I looked down. There was a shaft of iron, half a foot long, protruding from my gut. I stared at it. On instinct, I pulled it free, but the barbs did more damage on the way out. It was a lethal wound, and before I could consider my end, I fell to my side into blackness.

I opened my eyes and saw a familiar place. I was in the dream, staring at the inside of the wooden roof. The silver-haired man was there. Was I dead? Was this the afterlife? I felt cold again, icy, colder than before as if all the heat from my body had drained away. Then I remembered it was no longer my body; I was here now, in this place. I was the Emerese woman, black-skinned and burned. I felt anchored to where I lay in front of the man, but I wanted to see more, I needed to see more. I felt his blood drip upon her, upon me. I tried to pull away, tried to see, but I could not. Cold washed over me again, but I did not wake. I felt myself falling, falling into nothingness. All went dark. I heard nothing; I saw nothing, plunged into an eternity of darkness.

Then there was light.

A spark so fragile became a candle; that candle became a flame; that flame coursed through me, waking, raging. I opened my eyes. It was disorienting, a sensation impossible to describe. It was being and not being. I was the Emerese woman, but I was not. I was the silver-haired man, but I was not. I was Faerin, but I was not. I looked around, independent of the need for eyes. I looked down, observing the scene as I floated among the rafters above. I saw her scars. Scars that marred what once had been a beautiful face. She had eyes of a crystal blue, but they were cold, distant, dead.

I looked away and saw a sword next to her. It rippled with rivers of silver and blue. It had a dark gem set upon the handle, polished smooth like onyx. I turned and saw his silver eyes directly behind me as if he was looking right through me. I felt myself split and tear; then, I felt the burning as if that same awakening flame had caught hold in my mind, consuming it, consuming me, consuming my memories. It was traumatic. All I could do was cry out, but no words came.

I felt anchored again, suspended now from legs that were not legs. I was not held forcefully, but delicately. I felt precious, protected, cared for like a child. In that moment, I recognized the truth. I was the Emerese; I was the sword; I was the silver-haired man; I was the dark gem that glowed with a strangeness. I was of nothing; I was of all things—I was quin, and for ten heartbeats, I knew the secrets of the world.

A word echoed upon the wind. But there was no wind.

Hello.

Consciousness blasted into me like a shot of adrenaline. My eyes