Could he have been less communicative?
I cleared my throat. “We were told that if we wanted to inquire after any sensitive information, you were the man to seek out.”
Another ring of hammer against hot steel, and sparks flew. “Yes.”
With the sinking feeling that this might be entirely fruitless, I released Vale’s hand and slung my scythe from my shoulder. “It’s about this.” I held the weapon before me, angling it as Erista had demonstrated. “Have you seen something of this make before?”
I didn’t know if it was my tone of voice or pure curiosity, but the man set his hammer down. Wiping a dirty rag across his deeply-tanned face, he turned toward me.
And when his eyes landed on my scythe—my father’s scythe—the white’s shone.
“Where did you get that?” He stood from his stool, taking a few steps closer.
“That’s the question,” I huffed. His eyes shot to mine. “It was my father’s. But I never knew the man.”
The Soulguider held out a hand, almost reverently. His guard was still up behind his inquisitive stare, though. “May I?”
My teeth ground, but Vale answered with a pointed look at me. “Of course.”
Handing over the weapon that was as precious to me as one of my own bones, I asked, “What’s your name?”
“Elyrio,” he muttered, “friendlyclients call me Rio.” That hit my gut so hard, I ignored his warning emphasis on friendly. Rio. That’s how Akalain had referred to her brother in the letter she sent Malakai. It was a coincidence, but one that sliced through a wall I’d built.
“Rio,” Vale said, purposefully, “what can you tell us of the weapon?”
Elyrio ran a hand along the shaft. “These three gold bands at the end are significant.”
“How?” I asked, narrowed eyes on his expert grip as he assessed my scythe.
“One would mean the owner of this weapon was an esteemed solider in our army, or a distinguished guider of the dead.” He dragged a finger around that first band of gold in the wood. “A second belongs to the personal employ of a chancellor or a sacred site across our territory. Those who are the most prominent in that guard.”
The fire of the forge flickered across the weapon, gold bands glinting. “And the third?”
“A third band is rarely given.” He hummed, as if digging through his mind. “Only two dozen times in history have they been awarded.”
“And what have they been for?”
“It is an honor reserved for those who have direct involvement in a matter of our Angel. In forging, the blade is dipped in a sacred source and imbued with a rare but powerful magic.” My stomach dropped with his words. “Three bands are given to warriors when a chancellor—or someone with as much sway—called for assistance, and the barer was clearly successful.”
“Would this chancellor have been Meridat?”
Elyrio frowned, likely at my casual use of the chancellor’s first name, but I’d met her numerous times and she’d insisted.
“In the last century, yes,” Elyrio said. “This weapon was likely forged by a chancellery smith.” Reluctantly, he extended the scythe back to me.
“Thank you,” I said. “And those can only be found in the capital?”
I didn’t truly know what I was asking. These were questions I never thought I’d face. The weapon was mine; why did I care where it had come from?
I knewwhomy father was, that he did something truly incredible to earn the scythe. But still, having pieces of the story without the whole picture nagged at me more than I wished.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Elyrio led us back toward the door. “If you ever find out the story, I’d love to hear it.”
I nodded, lips pressed tight.
“Thank you,” Vale said demurely as we left. She slipped her hand back into mine.
Once we were out of the market and heading toward the inn, she asked, “How do you feel about that?”
