Six Celestial Swords by T. A. Miles

delicate engraving. He fell almost into a trance-like state while studying the fascinating work until he came upon a word; a name. Aerkiren , the name given to his father’s sword, which in the Northern Elvish tongue literally meant ‘sky of evening’, or more commonly, ‘twilight’.
    “It sings when darkness falls,” Morgen Shaederin had said.
    Alere drew the long elven blade at his hip and held it in both hands, studying the emblazoned symbols for several moments before finally setting the sword upon its mount. He hesitated to take his hands away from it at first, almost as if he believed it would vanish or as if somehow he would not be able to reclaim it. Eventually, he lifted his hands and stepped back…and watched.
    The lighting in the room made it difficult, but soon enough Alere descried the faint glow along the edges of the engravings; a soft violet light that seemed to actively trace the symbols. Alere had seen them glow stronger, but he had never seen them fully brilliant, not even in the near pitch darkness of the mountain corridors he and his siblings had fled through. Perhaps then he had been too preoccupied to notice, but it seemed unlikely, since the enchanted glow should have lit their path and all any of them could remember was the absolute depth of the darkness in those passages. This blade, clearly a gift from the gods, was mystery to him. He knew little of its origin and almost nothing of its true purpose in the world of mortals. Morgen Shaederin did not live long enough to explain such things to his son, if he had ever known himself.
    I will not tarnish your legacy, Father. I will do whatever I must to serve the power that was bestowed upon you.
    Alere did not hope to master the enchanted blade. To attempt to do so would be to defy the gods, and only arrogance and foolishness set a mortal soul on such a campaign.
    The twilight glow of the sword Aerkiren gleamed in Alere’s eyes, as if the weapon itself were a sentient being and had read his thoughts, and understood them.

    EVEN THE OPEN corridors of the castle were dark. Months could not lift the gloom that had spent years settling. Even after the bodies of their relatives had at last been properly buried, the spirits of those savagely murdered still seemed to linger in the air. They seemed to linger, but not one ghost of the past had been found after a long and thorough search.
    Alere stood idle for a moment upon a carpeted staircase between floors that was also a bridge across the center hall of the mountain fortress. Someone had been along to light the lamps. Not all of them, but many of the sleek, decorative iron posts had a fire glowing within the delicate glass shapes that topped them. It was not an entirely useless endeavor, as the bridge happened to be one of the easiest and quickest routes from one side of the main house to the other. Still, the light did little to penetrate the surrounding shadow and even less to uplift Alere’s spirits.
    He could justify passing charge of the house to Kailel. Not only was his cousin the son of Morgen Shaederin’s closest brother, but he had a sound presence of mind about him and a natural skill at handling the affairs of the household. Already he had been to the treasury and tallied the remains of the Shaederin capital against the records and the evidence of thieves. Mostly artifacts and items throughout the castle appraised by the greedy eye to be of tremendous worth had been taken. The treasury itself had been ransacked, but apparently not by a large number of burglars and none who were inclined to return after filling their purses once. The remains belonged entirely to the Shaederins, without lien or attachment, as Alere had paid for their stay in another elven lord’s domain with his sword arm and very nearly his life, on more than one occasion.
    Kailel had trained with a sword as well and his skills were not lacking. Again, his placement as lord of the Shaederin household was justified. And yet,