The wind growled and shoved at the battle-hardened one. He’d worn the same smile after killing the wind’s beloved man. He’d even worn this smile when he shoved the boy from the cliff. The wind rushed the battle-hardened one again, but he didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t—he was a sword, and swords never noticed the wind.
The solange-eyed one lifted an eyebrow as the papers on a long wooden table fluttered and then swept to the floor. The wind shoved them about and blew them further as the battle-hardened one went to pick them up. He stooped to grab a letter, and the wind blew it just as his fingers brushed the paper. He swore, bent again, and then the wind blew the paper out of reach. The wind made a fool of the battle-hardened one a third time. He stooped and pecked at the ground like a robin taunted by a worm. He missed every time. What fun. What delicious, delirious fun. It could make a fool of him all day long.
The solange-eyed one smothered a laugh and brushed his hand over his mouth, hiding a smile. The wind perked up, abandoning its game. It trailed toward him.
He could still laugh?
He could still smile?
“What did you say?” the battle-hardened one asked. He’d gathered the papers and shoved them back on the table.
The solange-eyed one hid his smile and shook his head. “Nothing. Just wondering . . . if we liberate them all, who will liberate them from their liberators?”
The battle-hardened brother laughed and gripped the solange-eyed one’s shoulder. “You sound just like Dad.”
The wind swirled around the solange-eyed one’s legs, turning a figure eight through his ankles. This was curious. This was a strange thing.
Before, the solange-eyed one had been a twisted, cruel, rage-filled creature. He’d smelled of wrath, with a bitter, acrid taint. He’d smelled broken and wrong. The wrongness had bunched his muscles and twisted his bones. He’d been a dark thing. His eyes had made the wind tremble, and his voice had made the wind moan.
But this wasn’t a dark thing.
This was a curious thing.
The Smiths’ voices rumbled in the stone room, cities fallen, governments seized, assassinations in play. The wind ignored the plots and instead concentrated on the plotter.
Who was this?
Who was he?
Was he the solange-eyed one, or was the twisted one him?
The wind trailed up his arm and sniffed his skin. He smelled as if he’d recently taken a hot shower and scrubbed himself with balsam soap. There was still a trace of salt and sweat on his skin and a hum in his muscles that meant he’d recently fought with a sword or run a long distance. His pulse boomed steadily, his blood a calm wave. He tasted . . . he tasted mournful but hopeful. Like a man staring up at the stars, wishing he could reach out and touch them.
There was power in him. It burned, raged, and crashed. His mother was a Bard, his father a Smith, and his illusion was an ocean of fire. But where was the acrid scent? The cruel scent?
Nowhere.
The wind fluttered the ends of his dark hair and tickled the back of his neck.
When the solange-eyed one had visited the first mine, he hadn’t smelled cruel either. The wind didn’t like to think of it, but he hadn’t smelled wrong when the battle-hardened one had killed the man.
It sighed and whispered a question.
The solange-eyed one’s lips lifted into a smile. He was speaking to the Smiths. “. . . careful to consider why we fight. You can’t fight for greed, power, revenge—none of these. The blood we spill plants seeds. What grows out of that blood will show us better than anything what our purpose was. We must fight for the protection of life, for the dignity of the human spirit, to stand against what is evil. If you are here to fight for anything else . . . leave. If you are afraid, scared of death, unwilling to fight . . . leave. Take the night. Consider. Things will only get harder from here.”
The wind tapped the solange-eyed one’s wrist, echoing the drumming of his heart. After a silent moment, the Smiths filed past, leaving the hall in groups of twos and threes. Last to leave was the granite-faced woman who had answered “yes, sir.” She cast the solange-eyed one a long, considering look, then said, “The Smith—your father—you are very like him.”
The solange-eyed one nodded. He was so rough-hewn and opaque it was impossible to tell if he was happy about this or not.
She stared at him a moment longer, then she said, “I can’t fight. I want to kill the Wards. I want to slaughter the Clarks. I want to punish the Bards. Any blood I spilled would only grow hate. I’m sorry. I respected and loved your father too much. I can’t wage a just war. It would be personal.”
The woman, gray hair at her temples, turned and left the hall. The solange-eyed one stared after her.
It was only him, the battle-hardened brother, and the wind left in the wide stone room.
“I hope you aren’t expecting me to leave,” the brother said. “Sorry to tell you, but we have a difference of opinion.”
The solange-eyed one’s lips quirked up at the corners.
