Thornton
The smell of pine hit Thornton’s nostrils as he opened the door to Silus’s shop, and it reminded him of home. The fir trees in Highglade were abundant enough to soak the air with their scent, and on a clear summer day you could smell it for miles. They were only ever overpowered by the smoke from Olson’s forge, and even that was seen as a welcome respite.
Despite the heavy smell of herbs and incense that hung in the air now, Thornton could pick out pine like a beggar could a gold coin in a pile of coppers, and the look on Yasha’s face told him that she smelled it too.
“It’s called soap, old man,” she whispered as she crinkled her nose. Behind her, Rathma chuckled to himself as Thornton shot his sister a disapproving look.
“Silus,” he announced as he brushed past her. “It’s Thornton. From earlier. I have a . . . favor to ask.”
He heard the old man rummaging around near the rear of the shop. They had perhaps caught him napping.
“Ah yes, Thornton. The young Khyth boy,” he answered, emerging from behind the crimson curtain with a head full of unkempt gray hair. “Of course.”
Thornton flinched at the words. “Ah, just Thornton, if you please.”
Silus waved it off. “So what is it, just Thornton? How can I help you?”
Rathma stepped forward. He crossed his arms defiantly, and his red eyes gleamed with determination. “We need to know if you have any experience preparing Vessels.”
Silus tilted his head at the new voice and frowned. “Planning on raising the dead, are we?”
“Something like that.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
Steeling his jaw, the Farstepper said, “That’s what I told them.”
Thornton nudged him.
“We need your help.”
The old man thumped his cane on the wooden floor as he moved toward them, shaking his head. “For one, there is a reason they are called Vessels: like a captain takes over a ship, whatever being is invoked takes control of the body.”
Rathma seemed to hesitate. “We can deal with that.”
“. . . Permanently.”
Rathma blinked hard. Thornton turned to protest, but he held out a hand before he could speak. “What else?”
“There must be a guide. Someone to accompany the spirit of the Vessel to their destination. To secure the anchor and complete the ritual.”
“We have that covered,” Yasha asserted, nodding at Thornton. “What else?”
“‘What else?’” the old man echoed. “As if I’m asking you for ingredients for bread! What else,” he breathed incredulously.
“Just tell us,” Rathma demanded.
Silus shot him a dirty look that, despite his blindness, conveyed his agitation perfectly well. “What else,” he said mockingly, “is that you need a god.”
They were silent. Yasha and Thornton traded defeated glances.
“So if we don’t have a god—” Yasha began.
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Silas said, cutting her off, as he shook his head and started to walk away. Turning back to them for a moment, he added, “You could use an artifact touched by the gods themselves. But,” he said as he chuckled, “good luck getting one of those; there are only a handful in the world.”
Thornton, stupefied, let his mouth hang open.
“So,” Silus went on, reaching up to pull back the curtain, “you see why it’s so difficult to prepare a Vessel. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Thornton has the Hammer of the Worldforge,” Yasha blurted out.
It was enough to make Silus stop in his tracks and drop his cane to the floor with a loud thump. He was completely still, as if the words themselves held power. As if he dared not anger them by moving, or breathing.
Finally, in a whisper, the old Athrani asked, “How?”
Thornton approached him. Reaching over his own shoulder for his hammer, he laid it on a nearby table and took Silus’s hand. “I don’t know. But feel for yourself.”
He helped the old man over to where his hammer lay, and guided his palm down the grooves of the white-ash handle, just as he himself had done so many times before. Silus traced the shallow carvings that had been put there by the Shaper Herself when She forged the world from the void. He moved his hand to the solid black head that was always inexplicably warm despite being made from cold, hard steel.
Thornton could see that tears had welled up in the old man’s eyes.
“I know, Thornton,” Silus said quietly. “I know how. It’s the only thing that makes sense, and it is what makes you the perfect anchor for the Vessel.” He took his hand off the Hammer and turned toward Thornton. When he did, Thornton had the sudden feeling that he was standing in front of a charging bull, and his feet were frozen where he stood. He felt the weight of something rushing toward him: something that had gone missing yet had always been there. Something he had always known but had somehow forgotten; a childhood memory that had been lost for years and suddenly found.
What he found was the answer to why he held the Hammer, why he could carry it despite his Khyth blood. It was the answer to why his father had wound up alive inside D’kane’s prison instead of dead somewhere outside of it.
It was the answer to why he could call flames from nothing. Just like . . .
“It appears,” Silus said, “that your father kept more than one secret from you two . . .”
Thornton held his breath, knowing what was coming.
“. . . about the Athrani blood that flowed through his veins . . .”
Poor Yasha.
“. . . and yours.”
She certainly was getting good at fainting.