it’s a big something, but I had so hoped we
could retrieve Silverlight for you.”
“Getting it back means traveling to Pentorus.
I’m not sure I could ever set foot in that place again. In any case, it was
your idea.” Not quite the truth, but we were all looking for someone to blame
at that point.
Magnus turned and threw his hands into the air.
“I just . . . I wanted . . .”
“You wanted everything to go back to the way it
was before I was taken. We both know that’s not possible.” I went to him and
pressed a gentle hand against his back. “Nothing we do will change what
happened to us. Can’t we make the choice to go forward from here?”
Jarl wiped his hands on the towel draped over
his shoulder. “I apologize to both of you. I sincerely thought I could open
that hand up enough to . . .” Eyes round as full moons, he stopped and tipped his
head. “Wait a minute. Why can’t we . . .?” He rose and began to pace, one
finger in the air. “If we can’t fit her hand around a sword grip, why can’t we
fit a sword grip into her hand?”
“What?” said Magnus. “That makes no sense.”
“Oh, but it does. We’ll have Jorge the
blacksmith make a grip that fits her. We‘ll have her make a fist around
a soft ball of clay.”
“Why?” Magnus gripped his chin, staring at Jarl
as though the physician had gone mad.
Jarl waved his hands in the air. “To get a
mold. A cast of her hand. Something for Jorge to work with. Holding a
sword will not be a problem for her. It’s getting one into her hand in the
first place.” He looked so pleased with himself, I had to laugh. “We’ll
circumvent the problem by having someone make a grip for her.”
“You might be on to something there, Aldi,”
said Magnus. “Calvin Azim can make the blade.” He looked down at me. “I’ll wrap
the grip with wool and soft leather, so it’s comfortable in your hand. Will you
do it?”
“This idea has so many holes, it’s practically
a sieve.” I laughed.
“It isn’t,” Jarl insisted. “We have nothing to
lose and everything to gain. Say yes, Kymber. Say yes, and Magnus and I will
move mountains for you.”
I inhaled, tempted to refuse, but there was no
reason to say no. Jarl was right. My hand was strong enough togrip a
sword, once it was firmly in place. Besides, their enthusiasm was infectious. “I
think you’ve both lost your marbles, but yes. Yes, I’ll do it.”
They took a cast of my hand that very day.
Magnus ran down the street to the potter and bought a damp lump of clay while
Jarl worked to keep my hand loose. As they tried to stuff that ball of clay
into a hand that barely opened, I laughed. I laughed at myself and Magnus and
Jarl, a happy sound that lifted me up like the breeze beneath a kite.
When they were done, I was messy and my hand
ached, but the experience felt like forward progress. Why would I ever say no
to that?
Maybe they didn’t know it, but the three of us
had become a team: two determined men rethinking a sword grip to get a blade in
my hand, and the ruined warrior willing to humor them.
I felt it then. A dim spark fighting for life
deep inside me. Long buried, but not completely extinguished.
It passed quickly. It was a wonder I sensed it
at all – a small taste of the love I once felt for Magnus Tyrix.
17: KYMBER
T wo weeks later, we got a note from Jorge, the
blacksmith in Adamar, summoning us to his shop. My hilt was done, but he wanted
to make sure it fit my hand to his satisfaction before it was passed on to
Calvin Azim, the swordsmith.
It was a moment I had anticipated and dreaded
all at the same time. I think Magnus felt the same. We met Jarl in front of
Jorge’s shop, tied our horses, and entered with one man on either side of me.
Jorge was a big, brusque, dark man, bald as a
newborn baby. Sweat rolled off his forehead as he pounded a glowing horseshoe
into shape on an anvil.
“The hilt is done?” Magnus asked when the
blacksmith failed to take
could retrieve Silverlight for you.”
“Getting it back means traveling to Pentorus.
I’m not sure I could ever set foot in that place again. In any case, it was
your idea.” Not quite the truth, but we were all looking for someone to blame
at that point.
Magnus turned and threw his hands into the air.
“I just . . . I wanted . . .”
“You wanted everything to go back to the way it
was before I was taken. We both know that’s not possible.” I went to him and
pressed a gentle hand against his back. “Nothing we do will change what
happened to us. Can’t we make the choice to go forward from here?”
Jarl wiped his hands on the towel draped over
his shoulder. “I apologize to both of you. I sincerely thought I could open
that hand up enough to . . .” Eyes round as full moons, he stopped and tipped his
head. “Wait a minute. Why can’t we . . .?” He rose and began to pace, one
finger in the air. “If we can’t fit her hand around a sword grip, why can’t we
fit a sword grip into her hand?”
“What?” said Magnus. “That makes no sense.”
“Oh, but it does. We’ll have Jorge the
blacksmith make a grip that fits her. We‘ll have her make a fist around
a soft ball of clay.”
“Why?” Magnus gripped his chin, staring at Jarl
as though the physician had gone mad.
Jarl waved his hands in the air. “To get a
mold. A cast of her hand. Something for Jorge to work with. Holding a
sword will not be a problem for her. It’s getting one into her hand in the
first place.” He looked so pleased with himself, I had to laugh. “We’ll
circumvent the problem by having someone make a grip for her.”
“You might be on to something there, Aldi,”
said Magnus. “Calvin Azim can make the blade.” He looked down at me. “I’ll wrap
the grip with wool and soft leather, so it’s comfortable in your hand. Will you
do it?”
“This idea has so many holes, it’s practically
a sieve.” I laughed.
“It isn’t,” Jarl insisted. “We have nothing to
lose and everything to gain. Say yes, Kymber. Say yes, and Magnus and I will
move mountains for you.”
I inhaled, tempted to refuse, but there was no
reason to say no. Jarl was right. My hand was strong enough togrip a
sword, once it was firmly in place. Besides, their enthusiasm was infectious. “I
think you’ve both lost your marbles, but yes. Yes, I’ll do it.”
They took a cast of my hand that very day.
Magnus ran down the street to the potter and bought a damp lump of clay while
Jarl worked to keep my hand loose. As they tried to stuff that ball of clay
into a hand that barely opened, I laughed. I laughed at myself and Magnus and
Jarl, a happy sound that lifted me up like the breeze beneath a kite.
When they were done, I was messy and my hand
ached, but the experience felt like forward progress. Why would I ever say no
to that?
Maybe they didn’t know it, but the three of us
had become a team: two determined men rethinking a sword grip to get a blade in
my hand, and the ruined warrior willing to humor them.
I felt it then. A dim spark fighting for life
deep inside me. Long buried, but not completely extinguished.
It passed quickly. It was a wonder I sensed it
at all – a small taste of the love I once felt for Magnus Tyrix.
17: KYMBER
T wo weeks later, we got a note from Jorge, the
blacksmith in Adamar, summoning us to his shop. My hilt was done, but he wanted
to make sure it fit my hand to his satisfaction before it was passed on to
Calvin Azim, the swordsmith.
It was a moment I had anticipated and dreaded
all at the same time. I think Magnus felt the same. We met Jarl in front of
Jorge’s shop, tied our horses, and entered with one man on either side of me.
Jorge was a big, brusque, dark man, bald as a
newborn baby. Sweat rolled off his forehead as he pounded a glowing horseshoe
into shape on an anvil.
“The hilt is done?” Magnus asked when the
blacksmith failed to take
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