Only the Bold. Морган Райс
now, he made his way further along the boat, to where his father was sitting, looking ahead at their progress with Gwylim the bhargir nearby. It almost looked as if his father was discussing something with the wolf-like beast, Gwylim’s head turning in acknowledgment as his father spoke.
“If I can return you to what you were, I will,” his father said. “But you must also know the dangers of the things that are to come. Without your skin, you may be trapped, but you are still powerful.”
“Father?” Royce said, moving closer.
His father turned and smiled up at him. “It’s so good to hear you call me that. I have just been discussing plans with our friend here.”
“And do you think he understood all of it?” Royce asked. It seemed so strange to be talking to a thing that looked like a wolf.
“Do you understand what a bhargir is, Royce?” his father asked. “A man who could take the skin of a beast imbued with magic and become it. An old thing, and a powerful one. A creature like him can heal wounds that he suffers, can fight against the most ferocious foes, and then walk back into camp as the man he was. Except that this one cannot.”
Royce nodded. He understood that. Even so, it was hard sometimes not to think of Gwylim as the creature he appeared to be.
“You have strange and powerful companions,” his father said, with a gesture up toward the circling form of Ember. “You will need to speak to your witch soon, because I would like to know what she plans to do next. As for me… may I borrow your sword for a while?”
“It’s yours, if you want it,” Royce said. He took the obsidian blade from his belt and held it out almost reverently.
His father shook his head. “Not to keep. Living alone for so long has taught me a few skills, though, and I think that I can help make this blade better.”
“Better?” Royce said.
“A warrior should have a good sword,” his father said. “Go, speak with your witch. I will do what I can here.”
Royce wanted to explain to his father that it wasn’t that easy; that Lori was only there to speak to rarely, when she wanted. His father seemed so confident, though, that Royce reached up his senses toward Ember, calling out to Lori as he did so.
He had an image of a space out of doors, among a set of ancient stones. There was a fire set in the middle of it, slow burning with peat, but also with something that made the edges of the flames burn in shades of green and purple. Royce felt as if he were walking into that image then, moving forward to the edge of the firelight.
“I hoped you would come,” Lori said, the witch looking up at him. “Come, Royce, sit by the fire. Tell me what is happening.”
“Don’t you know?” Royce asked. He moved to sit by the fire, in a spot where a low stone served as a seat. Royce could both feel it and not feel it, there and not there, all at once.
“No,” Lori said, and now Royce could see just how worried the witch looked. “That’s the problem.” She cast something into the fire, the color of the flames changing once again, the edges burning with the orange heat of a forge. “Look into the fire, Royce, and tell me what you see.”
Royce stared at the flames obediently, looking deeper and deeper, assuming that if he stared deep enough, it would give him visions of what was to come. Compared with the many possibilities of the mirror, it was a crude method, but Royce would welcome any guidance that he could get.
“I… just see flames,” Royce admitted after a few minutes of staring.
“That’s the problem,” Lori said. “So do I. I should see more, I have seen more, but from the moment you looked into that mirror of yours, I have been able to catch only glimpses of things to come.”
“You’re saying that the mirror interferes with other magic?” Royce asked, thinking of the glass that even now sat safe in their boat.
“Maybe,” Lori said with a shrug. “Or maybe the fact that it has shown you so much makes my kind of prediction less certain.”
“Not being able to see anything might be disconcerting,” Royce said, “but it doesn’t have to be a problem. I’ve looked into the mirror. I’ve seen…” Even here, like this, he knew that he couldn’t admit exactly what he’d seen, and Lori was already holding up a hand to stop him.
“Don’t,” she said. “The future is too fragile. You’re treating it like some steel hawser, when it’s a gossamer thread. Be more careful, Royce.”
Now the worry in her voice seemed to have turned to outright fear.
“Lori,” Royce said, “I know you can’t see anything, but that doesn’t mean that anything’s wrong.”
“I didn’t say that I couldn’t see anything,” Lori said. “I told you, I still catch glimpses, and those glimpses are things of shadows and blood. I see violence, Royce, everywhere I look.”
Royce shook his head. “That’s one possibility, but it’s not the only one. I have found my father. We will return, and the people will follow him. They will see the true king returned, and everyone will understand that things have changed. If we’re lucky, even King Carris will back down and run.”
Lori laughed at that. “I sometimes forget how young you are, Royce, or maybe how old I am. Not everyone has seen… whatever you have seen. Not everyone has wisdom straight from a mirror, or your certainty that your father is the perfect king. People won’t just bow down to him because he returns.”
“I hope you’re wrong,” Royce said.
Lori smiled at that, but the smile was a brittle one. “So do I, Royce. So do I.”
The image of her by the fire faded, and Royce found himself back in the boat with the others. To his surprise, the sun had moved across the sky in the time he’d been conversing with the witch; much farther than it should have done in what had seemed like only a short time.
“You’re awake,” Matilde said. “That’s good. I think we’re getting close to shore, and we’re going to have to row when we get close.”
“You just don’t want to be the one doing it,” Royce guessed.
“After all the rowing in the Seven Isles?” Matilde shook her head. “I’ll leave it to you.”
Royce was happy that she and Neave seemed to have given up arguing for the moment. He went over to his father, who was still sitting in the prow of the boat, working on the obsidian sword.
Royce barely recognized it. His father had worked on the edges, turning the weapon into something smooth and sharp and deadly. He’d rewrapped the grip in leather, burning in wood above it to form a cross guard. Now he appeared to be fitting something into that cross guard, and it took Royce a moment to recognize—
“Your signet ring?” Royce said.
His father nodded, finishing pressing the symbol from it into a groove cut perfectly for the purpose.
“It’s not much, but I wanted the blade to be something personal, something that could only ever be yours,” his father said.
“It’s perfect,” Royce said, taking the blade from him. He tried the blade, and he could feel the adjustments that his father had made. It was lighter now, the balance refined, the blade singing through the air when Royce made an exploratory sweep with it. It wasn’t the shining perfection of the crystal sword, but it was something else in its own right, and it moved easily in Royce’s hand.
He stood there with his father, King Philip’s hand resting on his shoulder as they looked out in the direction of the kingdom. Soon, the dark line of the coast started to come into view, and Royce looked over at his father.
“We’re going home,” he promised.
“We are,” his father agreed. “And then the fight for it will begin.”
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