Page 84 of The Storm
“Who knows?” Leo said. “The way the world is changing, the scribe house might send you a singer instead of a scribe.”
Peter’s eyebrows went up, but he shrugged. “As long as she can swing a hammer.”
“That I might have to see.” He glanced at his father. “We’ll come next summer when the baby can travel. Maybe you’ll have a new apprentice by then.”
“Thank you.” Peter’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I will… expect you.”
* * *
Max and Leowalked on either side of their grandfather, helping the fading scribe down to the beach as the sun began to rise and the morning sky turned pink. Renata walked behind them, singing the songs of the dying. Kyra walked with Peter, one of Evelina’s blankets wrapped around her shoulders.
As Artis began to stumble, she saw Azril walk from the forest to meet them on the dunes where the long grass swayed.
The old scribe lay down in the sand and let out a labored breath, his eyes locked on the horizon. Leo and Max knelt beside their grandfather, supporting his back. He put a hand on both their heads, whispering in turn to each of them. He clutched their hands and looked to the sky before his eyes closed in peace. A smile touched his lips, and Kyra could see the borders between his body and his soul blur in the dawn light.
Azril looked at Kyra and smiled.
“Do you see him?” she asked Peter.
“I do.” Peter’s voice was choked. “Is he…?”
“That’s Azril.” Kyra smiled. “He’s a friend.” She wasn’t surprised by Peter’s reaction. Who expected Death to come with a gentle smile? “He’s always the same. Everywhere on the earth, he has always been. The world can be cruel. Humans and angels both. But Azril isn’t cruel. When your mate left this world, she took his hand and she would have known peace. I promise, Peter.”
He stared at Azril. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Renata’s voice rose as the sun did, singing high and clear in the morning mist. As she sang, Azril walked to Artis and knelt down at his feet. He reached his hand from the grass cloak and offered it.
Kyra saw Artis smile. Then the old scribe reached out, and his fading hands clutched Death’s offering. The moment they touched, his body began to shimmer with a faint gold light.
The smile on Azril’s face was incandescent.Walk with me, Artis of Dunte. Your body is no longer your home.
Artis’s body dissolved in a shower of gold light and his dust rose, carried by the angel to the heavenly realm.
* * *
Max loadedthe cradle basket in the back of the truck as Renata and Kyra debated which trunks to take and which to leave at the farm. They were already planning their visit next summer, ordering Leo around as he carted things in and out of the house.
Peter walked over to Max with a wrapped bundle under his arm.
“What is that?” Max asked.
Peter held out the bundle. “Your father’s sword. Someone in Vilnius sent pictures to Riga and they sent the pictures to me. I recognized the markings on the blade and bought it. It had been in the collection of a human who did not know what thetalesmwere.”
It might have been the longest sentence Max had ever heard from his uncle.
Then again, it was about weapons.
“Thank you.” Max unwrapped the bundle and looked at the finely worked leather of the scabbard.
“I made the scabbard.”
“It’s beautiful, Peter. Thank you.”
“It was dangerous to leave it with the humans,” Peter said. “This was forged with very strong magic and has a silver core.” He drew the sword from the scabbard with the practiced hand of an expert. “Ivo took great pride in this sword. He never said how old it was, but I would estimate fifteenth century, so it likely belonged to his father since your father was my age.”
Max’s eyes went wide. “You knew him.”
