Page 141 of Quicksilver
Ours now,the quicksilver whispered.Our song. A song for us to keep.
The others hadn't heard the quicksilver this time, I could tell.That's what you meant? That you'd take it, and it would disappear? That no one would remember it?
Ours now,the quicksilver repeated.
Ours.
Ours.
Ours.
It seemed a shame that Lorreth's song had been ripped out of the world, all memory of it erased. It had moved me in a way. It had explained so much.Why canIstill remember it?I asked.
We remember, so the Alchemist remembers.
Huh. I didn't know how to feel about that. Being the only person alive to remember the ballad Lorreth had written about Fisher felt like sacrilege. How many other things would I need to remember, that everyone else had to forget, in order to make all of those relics? There were more bargains on the horizon, I knew. Thousands of them. Small deals to be struck. How the hell would I navigate them all without landing myself in hot water? Just thinking about it made me break out into a cold sweat. I put those concerns away, to fret about later.
So? Will you allow this sword to channel magic?I asked.
I waited for the quicksilver's reply. Technically, it didn't matter if the sword wasn't able to channel magic. I'd made thedamned thing, which was impressive enough, even to me, and the chances were high that I'd be able to talk the quicksilver into bonding with the rings to become relics. If I succeeded in that, I would have done all I'd agreed to accomplish for Fisher. But there was also the matter of my pride. I wanted to know what I was capable of achieving here, working with such a fascinating, stubborn material. I couldn't live with not knowing...
Hold me with both hands and name me, Lorreth of the Broken Spires, the quicksilver said.
Lorreth looked a little bewildered.“Me?”he said aloud.
It is your privilege.
The warrior looked to me, conflicted. Apparently, it was the right of the smith who'd forged a blade to name it in Yyvelia, just as it was in Zilvaren. Lorreth looked guilt-ridden over it. I, however, had no qualms. The blade would not be whole or complete without Lorreth. “Go on,” I told him. “You heard it. Give it its name.”
Resolve settled over the warrior’s features. His hesitancy still shone through, but he placed both hands on the hilt and raised the blade aloft, speaking in a clear, loud voice. “I name you Avisiéth. The Unsung Song. Redemption's Dawn.” The moment he finished speaking, a blue flame rippled down the sword's blade, searing runes into the metal in its wake alongside the script I had etched there. And then a brilliant white light erupted from Avisiéth. Blinding and powerful, it shot straight up into the air—a pillar of energy that transformed night into day. The very ground beneath our feet quaked.
Fisher let out a surprising whoop, joy shining from his face as he followed the column of energy upward into the heavens. “Angel's breath, brother!” he hollered. “Fucking angel's breath!”
30
SWEAR IT
The camp wasin chaos when Fisher escorted me back to his tent. Nearly everyone had seen the column of angel's breath illuminating the pre-dawn sky. Those who hadn't fired questions at those who had, and all were gripped with an air of excitement. Fisher had advised Lorreth to go and sleep until he came to get him later in the evening. He'd still looked dumbstruck as he headed off in the direction of his tent, cradling Avisiéth like a baby in his arms. Carrion had decided that he couldn't be bothered hiking back down the hill and announced that he was going to sleep at the forge.
Meanwhile, I had no idea what angel's breath was or how it would be useful on a battlefield. I was so sore I couldn't think straight, and frankly, I couldn't even remember my own name. I collapsed into a chair as soon as Fisher got me into the tent, but he shook his head, hauling me out of it again by my wrists. “I don't think so, Little Osha. Come on. Here. You're sleeping in the bed.”
“With you?” It was a challenge. I was done tiptoeing around this now.
Fisher's brow dipped for a second. He seemed frustrated, but he nodded. “I need to go and talk to Ren first. But yes. I'll be sleeping here. With you.”
“All right, then.”
“But first,”—he pulled a face—“you need a bath.”
I couldn't be offended.
I'd spent fifteen hours slaving away in a sweltering forge and had the sweat and half of the dirt of Innìr beneath my fingernails to prove it. My hair was crisp from my perspiration—my fingers got stuck in it when I tried to run my hand through it. I wanted nothing more than to be clean, but when I tried to talk myself into crossing the tent toward the beautiful copper claw foot tub that Fisher conjured with his smoke, I found my legs uncooperative. I didn't even have the energy to talk.
Fisher took one look at me and lifted me into his arms. He might have had a cutting comment for me once.See, Little Osha. Just like the butterfly I named you after. So weak. So vulnerable. But he said nothing as he carried me to the tub and carefully set me down. His eyes trailed fire over my skin as he helped me out of my clothes. I hissed, failing to raise my arms over my head, and he dispensed with the process entirely, tiny particles of midnight sand rushing over my body and helpfully dispatching my clothes.
Even after a long day's work at Elroy's forge, I'd never felt this gross. Kingfisher looked at me like I was the most astonishing thing he'd ever seen. As if he didn't see the grime and the exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin. Midnight hair. Jade green eyes. That strong jaw. The full mouth that softened the powerfully masculine lines of his other features. The runes at his throat pulsed like a heartbeat as he lifted me again and lowered me gently into the bathtub.
I sighed in instant relief. The water was the perfect temperature; the heat worked its way into my body, easing thetension in my joints and kneading out the knots in my muscles. It was nothing short of divine.
