11. Ignatius #2
He warmed himself by the fire until his body didn’t feel quite so numb, avoiding looking at the gold-tinged flames so he could pretend it was nothing but a mundane blaze. Then, he distracted himself by sorting through their supplies.
In their haste to flee the tower, he’d instructed his undead to grab whatever they could, and he was pleased to see they’d done reasonably well at gathering the essentials. It would be far less comfortable here than in the tower, but at least they shouldn’t freeze or starve to death.
A pang of sorrow rang through his chest when he realized he’d left behind his trunk of books. Perhaps he could return to salvage it once the storm had passed. It was the closest thing he had to permanent possessions if one didn’t count his undead. Speaking of…
He ordered his undead to line up and performed a perfunctory examination.
Of his original twenty-two, fifteen remained.
Pierre was among them, not that he’d be able to do much without a proper kitchen.
To Iggie’s immense relief, so were Marlon and Cynthia.
Of the other survivors, only three had any kind of combat training.
All his actual warriors had perished saving Alistair.
Iggie would just have to make do with what he had until he could scrounge up some more suitable corpses to raise.
He was still sorting through the stacks of supplies when Alistair returned, an enigmatic expression on his face. “Come with me,” he said. “There’s something I want you to see.”
A wave of nerves buzzed over Iggie. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Just…look, it’ll be easier to show you than to explain. Come on.”
Ignoring the tiny voice in the back of his head whispering that this might be a trap, Iggie followed the paladin toward the tunnel from which he’d emerged. As always, Marlon and Cynthia trailed after him. Alistair paused at the tunnel’s mouth, glancing back.
“You can leave your undead here. It’s safe.”
Iggie hesitated, his uncertainty churning as he looked between the paladin and his loyal guards.
What if Alistair was wrong and they were attacked?
What if he’d missed something in his exploration?
Or worse still, that insidious voice whispered, what if he’s taking advantage of this opportunity to remove a troublesome complication?
Alistair’s face softened. His golden eyes seemed to shimmer in the dim light as he offered his hand. “Do you trust me? Because I swear that I will keep you safe, no matter what.”
Heat thawed Iggie’s frozen bones. Despite the acute sense of self-preservation he’d honed over years on the run screaming at him not to, he clasped Alistair’s hand in his own and gave a firm nod.
Maybe he was being a Dark-cursed fool, but if Alistair said he’d protect him, then Iggie believed he meant it.
Hoping he wasn’t making a colossal mistake, he ordered Marlon and Cynthia to stay behind.
Alistair grinned and briefly squeezed Iggie’s hand before letting go.
A faint sense of loss rippled through him at the broken connection.
Together, they followed the rough stone passage, ducking when the ceiling became too low to pass. Alistair’s dawnflame proved more than enough to light the way, though Iggie tried not to dwell on the source of the glow.
It felt strange to be without any of his undead for company. They had been his constant—and only—companions for so long. Yet, to his mild surprise, he really did feel safe in Alistair’s capable hands…even if they currently burned with fiery dawnflame.
When they turned a corner and found shifting light flickering across the stone wall, Iggie shrank back, his pounding heart lodging in his throat. “It found us!” he shouted, turning to run.
“Wait!” Alistair’s firm grip on his arm brought him up short, as did the amusement in his voice. How could the paladin be laughing at a time like this? “It’s not what you think. Come on—I’ll show you.”
This time, he didn’t release his hold on Iggie, half-dragging him forward. Iggie reluctantly allowed himself to be led, though he remained tensed to flee at the slightest hint of the abomination. When they emerged into a small cave, however, Iggie’s breath caught.
Shadow and shade…
This cave was much tinier than the one where they’d built their fire, barely twenty paces across and with a low-enough ceiling they were forced to hunch.
But scattered across its interior were jagged crystals that appeared to naturally sprout from the stone.
The crystals shimmered, rainbow lights flickering over their surfaces and creating dazzling patterns.
“What are they?” Iggie asked, his voice thick with wonder.
“Song crystals,” Alistair replied. A tiny smile quirked his lips. “Or harmonite, to use their official name. The only known deposits grow in these mountains.”
As Alistair spoke, Iggie slowly approached the nearest crystal cluster, crouching down to study it up close. “They’re incredible,” he whispered. He grunted in surprise when the crystal’s current array of greens darkened to a deeper, pulsating blue. “Why do their colors keep changing like that?”
“They react to sound,” Alistair explained, stepping up next to Iggie.
Sure enough, the harmonite resonated with his words, each sound altering not only the crystal’s colors but also the pattern of light and the speed with which it flickered.
“Artisans at Singer’s Rest shape the natural crystals into a desired configuration and then harvest them to preserve that distinct pattern.
It’s the entire reason Singer’s Rest even exists. ”
“I’ve heard of song crystals before,” Iggie said, marveling at the way the crystals echoed his words back to him in visual form.
“And I knew Singer’s Rest exported them.
But I’ve never seen one in person. Only the wealthy could afford them.
” Something like chagrin flashed over Alistair’s face, and Iggie smirked.
“Let me guess—your family estate has one in every room.”
“House Halion owned its fair share,” Alistair said evasively. He cleared his throat. “But those finished song crystals no longer react to sound, their patterns rendered immutable. It’s something else entirely to be surrounded by them in their raw form. As if your very words are alive.”
Iggie wholeheartedly agreed. In his experience, magic was something dark and terrible—a secret to be jealously guarded or a weapon to be used to hurt others. Yet, here in these crystals, he saw magic in its purest form—as an expression of sheer wonder.
Staring at the harmonite, another thought occurred to him. “If the people of Singer’s Rest harvest these crystals, does that mean we’re close to town?”