29. Metallurgical Equivalent of Poetry
Metallurgical Equivalent of Poetry
I awoke to knuckles rapping on the door and Griffon shooting out of bed and landing in a crouch.
He had left one of the small lanterns lit, which created just enough light to see the shapes in the room—and to appreciate the full dramatic effect of his battle-ready stance against the offending entrance.
“Dawn is in forty minutes,” a voice called.
These people had an unhealthy obsession with watching the sun appear every morning—as if they needed to confirm it was still doing its job.
Griffon straightened, his breathing gradually slowing from ‘imminent threat response’ to ‘false alarm, stand down’.
“You okay?” I asked with a voice still raspy from sleep.
Jumping at my voice, he spun back to face the bed, momentarily disoriented. His eyes swept over me, then the room, and I watched recognition slowly dawn across his features. Not in a cell. Not in danger.
He rolled his shoulders, working out the tension. “I think I’ll feel better when we’re gone from this place.”
“Me too.”
I can’t imagine what Griffon endured alone in that cell for so long, just passing the time until he would burn to death. I couldn't think of a worse way to spend a week.
His gaze was still on me, lying in the bed. Neither of us moved as I tried to decipher his look. Was he deciding what he was going to rate our stay? Pondering our journey ahead? Considering his options for first meal? As usual, the man's face gave nothing away.
I shifted under the sheets, suddenly aware that my sleeping shift was rather thin.
Griffon always had an unsettling way of cataloging everything around him.
But it wasn’t his usual detached, analyzing stare.
He looked at me as if I were a puzzle he was trying to solve.
Not sure he’d have much luck with that. I'd been trying to solve myself for nineteen years with limited success.
Finally, he cleared his throat and looked away. “We’d better get ready.”
Salma’s eyes were shiny with tears. “You’re really leaving.” She wrapped her arms around me. “I keep hoping you’d change your mind.”
“I can’t stay,” I said, my words muffled in her shoulder. “But thank you. For everything.”
She finally pulled back only to press something into my palm. “I had this made. Well, modified. The jeweler thought I’d lost my mind.”
I opened my hand to find a stellarium compass.
Its darkened brass case was smaller than the compass Griffon had lost and more delicate.
I snapped open the lid to find a star dial with etched constellations arranged around a single pivot that could be turned to match the stars above.
It included a V-shaped notch to sight Polaris and a horizontal ring with the cardinal directions.
“Salma…” I turned it over to find an engraving on the backside. To our little bird. As the night stars guide your steps; the daystar guides your soul. “This is beautiful.”
“You spend so much time looking up at the stars,” she said softly.
“I’m not even sure you realize you were doing it.
But I thought on your journey, you might like something to help you navigate by them.
” She gave me a watery smile. “When I told the jeweler about the astronomy texts you told me you adored, he added declination markings. He said something about azimuthal projections that I didn’t understand, but he was confident you would. ”
“Oh, Salma,” I murmured, my vision blurring.
“You’re brilliant with most things, little bird. Especially at everything above our heads. But I suspect you may struggle with navigation on the ground,” she laughed. “So now you won’t get lost.” Her expression sobered. “Because sometimes even little birds need help finding their way home.”
I wouldn’t have known what to say even if my throat had allowed words to pass. Clutching her gift to my chest, I just nodded.
Griffon peered over my shoulder with an expression softer than I’d ever seen. We each wore baggy sirwal pants tucked into boots, tunics with wide leather belts, and hooded cloaks in earthy tones of olive green and brown.
Salma peered up at him and narrowed her eyes. “You better take care of her, strong man, or I will cross the continent and hunt you down myself.”
He looked down at her with such a startled sort of wariness, you would have thought she were twice his size. “I’m sure you would.”
She pulled me in for one last hug and kissed me on the cheek. “Promise me you’ll try to write. Or at least think of me when you’re missing your baklava and second-guessing your life choices.”
“I promise,” I laughed, my voice cracking.
Mali put a comforting arm around her as King Faisal stepped up to Griffon, holding out something wrapped in cloth.
“There is something very important I must return to the champion who earned it,” he said as he drew back the cloth, revealing the Viridis dagger. “The Blade of Volantia.”
Griffon stilled. The swirling greens of the malachite grip gleamed in the morning sun. He had mentioned that the dagger always seemed to find its way back to him. And here it was again, like a weapon with separation anxiety.
When he reached out slowly and curled his fingers around the familiar grip, something shifted in him. I wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but it was like watching a missing piece slide back into place.
“I was unable to acquire the rest of your weapons prior to them being sold,” the king stated apologetically, “so I have replaced them. I hope you will find the finest Solisian steel to your liking.”
A line of servants stepped forward with what could only be described as an arsenal. It was like watching him open gifts on his birthday. Sharp, potentially lethal gifts.
Griffon examined the weapons. “This doesn’t look like Solisian steel…”
He picked up one of the short-swords and tilted it in the light. Two guards stepped forward to flank the king, but halted when the king raised a hand.
“You are correct,” the king replied, refocusing on Griffon. “They have a high carbon content like Solisian steel, but these weapons also contain high quantities of vanadium.”
I had no idea what any of that meant, but Griffon's face suggested it was the metallurgical equivalent of poetry. He examined them closely, testing their weight and balance.
“It is the least I could do. Our master leatherworker has recreated the chest holster and knife sheaths similar to the ones I am told you previously wore as well.” Griffon gave him a sharp nod in acceptance, and the king seemed pleased with himself.
A servant helped Griffon adjust the leather straps across his chest and back. And then he methodically placed all the blades into their respective slots.
When he was finished, the transformation was startling.
The elegant man from the festival, in ivory fabric and almost-softness, had vanished.
In his place was a warrior. The queen’s assassin.
The King Killer. With his twin short swords crossing his back like dark wings and throwing knives lining his torso in a gleaming column, he became someone harder, sharper, thoroughly dangerous.
Possibly the most heavily armed person within a fifty-kilometer radius.
Which, given recent events, seemed like a reasonable precaution.
But when his eyes found mine, the hard lines of his face seemed to soften. Not much, but just enough that I could see both versions of him at once. The weapon that could end lives with frightening efficiency and the man who carefully tucked a feather behind my ear.
Mali stepped forward and handed me a royal writ of passage for safe travel through their kingdom and a small, ornate dagger with a round carnelian on the pommel and an engraved silver belt sheath. “For you. A little something to remember us by.”
As if I could possibly forget the time I nearly burned to death.
She stepped closer then and placed her hands on my shoulders. “I am sad to see you go, little bird. I so enjoyed our time together,” she crooned.
With that, she leaned in and put her lips on mine.
Oh.
Oh.
Pulling me closer, she tilted her head to take the kiss deeper.
She smelled like jasmine and tasted like mint tea, and somewhere in the distant reaches of my short-circuiting brain, I recognized this for what it was.
This wasn’t the assertive kiss in the Seraglio.
It wasn’t seduction. This was a farewell.
Like everything else in her life, Mali loved boldly and said goodbye to people she cared about in an openly affectionate and completely unashamed way.
I respected that, even if my face was doing its impression of a sunset.
When she pulled back, she gave me a wide, genuine smile, but with some sadness around the edges. “May the Daystar shine upon you, Wren.”
Then she turned and rejoined the smirking king, who looked entirely too pleased with himself.
Griffon’s eyebrows had disappeared somewhere up in his hairline. He was staring at me with a bit of shock, but also a good helping of amusement. Not knowing what else to do, I pointedly looked at him and just shrugged.
“So,” he said slowly as we walked toward the horses. “That happened.”
“Apparently.” My voice sounded higher than normal, probably a few octaves into the range only dogs could hear.
“You have an interesting effect on people.”
“It's a gift,” I said, my face still hot enough to cook eggs on. “A very confusing gift.”
“Should I be worried about leaving you alone in any more palaces?”
“Oh, shut up.”
He laughed. Actually laughed. The sound was warm and genuine, and for a moment, I forgot to be mortified.
As we approached the horses, we turned to find the king had stepped away from the women and approached us. Griffon swung the traveling cloak around his shoulders.
“There is one more matter I must discuss with you before you depart.” There was a seriousness that hadn’t been on the king’s face moments ago. “My informants in Volantia have sent word of concerning developments.”
Griffon’s fingers stilled on the ties at his neck.