The Final Life

  ***

  About thirty minutes and a few dance partners later (the dance required that the couples inside the circle switch out with those clapping around them, and Glint learnt the hard way that you don’t necessarily dance with a pretty girl every time, or even with a female at that,) Glint noticed that Azrael had come down from their room, looking perplexed at the commotion. He excused himself from his partner politely, nodding to her and smiling apologetically for interrupting their dance. She was a kind woman in her late thirties, and didn’t seem to mind him leaving very much at all. In fact an elderly gentleman was more than glad to court the woman when Glint turned away, and from the glow in her face, Glint thought he might actually have been her husband. So that’s why he was looking at us, Glint thought to himself as he walked over to his travelling companion with a smile on his lips.

  That smile widened considerably when he noticed that Azrael was still in his sleeping clothes, being of course pitch black and different from what people were used to wearing in Shien. Azrael had called the thing a “nightshirt,” Glint remembered, although to the young warrior it looked much more like a dress than anything else. Added to that, the man was shameless enough to have a floppy pointy hat on his head, adorned by a fluffy white ball.

  Azrael had called it the most comfortable thing you could wear to bed. Glint didn’t care how comfortable it was. There was just something about Azrael standing at the foot of the stairs blinking, still more asleep than awake, trying to make sense of the scene before him with a dress reaching only to his knees and a fluffy white ball dangling next to his face that made the warrior whistle, drawing the attention of Mark. Glint pointed at the necromancer, who was now next to his friend, and gestured with his hands in a pulling motion towards himself. At that moment it dawned on Azrael that he may not be at all dressed appropriately for what was afoot, and the shame of it transformed his face into something Glint was not used to seeing on such an extremely composed and rather manipulative man: horror.

  Azrael turned to sprint back up the stairs, but was yanked back off his feet by the scruff of his neck. Mark wrapped his arms around the necromancer in order to secure him, despite vigorous protest. Azrael kicked and screamed the whole way, feet going gradually upwards with each consecutive kick, as the larger man carried him towards Glint with a wide toothy grin on his face. Each person he pushed past looked around in annoyance, but then choked on their laughter at the scene. By the time he reached the young warrior, who was tearing up at that point, Azrael was being carried upside down. Funnily enough the bard, far behind Glint, was singing a tale that was humorous in its own way.

  “Pleased you could make it, Azrael,” he said to the necromancer’s bony pale knee, which was what in his line of vision at this point. Despite Glint’s best effort his voice betrayed him and a giggle escaped him.

  “I swear by all that is holy, Glint! With Pyro the fiery spectre as my witness, I am going to make you pay for this. With every last breath I take, I shall hunt you down. By Sklaver I will let no beast taste your blood before I do. Odin will see me unmake you slowly and surely. I swear it by every existing Unchained and all that are to come. You will learn pain. Now put me down!” The threat was uttered in a low voice, somehow reaching beyond the bustle of the room, the party, and the music and dancing. The words were pronounced deliberately and almost made Glint shudder.

  Then again, he was looking at Azrael’s pale bony knee. “Do you want me to lower the dress?” he said to the pale bony knee, and it bobbed as its owner shook his head furiously.

  “Please don’t,” he breathed from below Glint.

  “Good knee,” Glint giggled, barely stopping his body from shaking with laughter. He spread his hands and his friend put the necromancer into them.

  “Damn you...” he heard as he walked Azrael over to the dance floor, directly in front of the bard.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing.”

  He had to set Azrael on the women’s side. He just couldn’t resist it. “Let’s dance!” he yelled to the people where were now watching the spectacle, laughing and whistling at Azrael. The necromancer bowed, embarrassed, and the crowd cheered.

  “Hear, hear!” exclaimed the bard and started a new, fast paced song.

  As they danced, Glint knew Azrael wouldn’t be able to do the dance properly, and as the necromancer’s row stepped forwards to the men’s line, and the women took up the men’s arm for a spin, Glint focused on keeping Azrael close, he had to yell over the music and laughter, “It’s easy enough! The men and women line up into two rows, see? They face each other, and create a beat by clapping their hands or stepping onto the wooden floor with their feet, then they skip to each other, link their hands, spin each other around, and go to the other side.” Repeating the words Barry had told him earlier made Glint feel like a true professional in the cacophony of song, conversation, colours and music. He spun Azrael around by the elbow, exchanging sides with the man, and keeping his eyes on him the whole time, looking for confusion.

  But instead Azrael smiled at the warrior confidently and exclaimed, “I can do that,” springing away without another word. In the next few minutes Azrael proved himself to everyone in the room, dancing flamboyantly and with an air of supremacy around him. In the lantern lights even the bouncing fluff of his nightcap could not detract from how dashing the man appeared, giving those around him a squinting look, as if staring at something far in the distance. Glint could do nothing at the performance except laugh and clap along at the sidelines, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all.

  By the time the dance was almost over Azrael was the only one in the middle of a ring of people, cheering and whistling as he sometimes danced alone and at others grabbed an impromptu partner from the ring, disregarding gender completely. In the end it was the music that was keeping a beat to his rhythm, and when he ended the dance in a flourish the room went wild. People threw hats at him while clapping. Someone even threw in a fresh red rose at the man, who grabbed it out of the air and then stuck it sideways into his mouth. He bowed and the crowd went even more insane, and Glint had to stop them from rushing in at the necromancer to carry him high in the air. Alas, his attempts ended in failure, for the bard screamed, “Both of them!”

  Thus the two were hoisted high and jolted around the room, paraded as if they were trophies. They could not stop laughing at the situation, until Gared stopped the party by waving a broom around and they decided to ask to be put down. After that Glint and Azrael showed their good spirits by helping out with the cleaning when everybody else had filed out. Gared had yelled, “Regulars only!” several times, discouraging other well-meaning attempts.

  When it was all done, they sat with Gared and the bard till late at the bar counter, talking about the evening and exchanging tales of their exploits, as well as their travels. Then the bard introduced himself.

  “My name is Vladimir Tchaikovsky,” the bard began with a thick accent. His voice was pleasant even when he spoke, although it didn’t carry the same mountainous harmony he used in song. He had blue eyes and no hair on his head but a large mustasche curved almost up to his ears. He was heavily built and despite wearing a simple shirt and some brown pants, he looked out of place in them. “I come from a land far east from here. It is a land where even the guilds are ruled by weather sometimes, where toughness is the first and last thing you need to survive. Where I hail from, the cold and the wolves take the lives of many. Men learn to fear the lash of ice on the wind’s breath, and the winter does not allow us to weep for our dead.”

  Glint was sitting on a stool between Azrael and the man, with his left elbow on the wooden bar counter, which was moist from the all the drinks people spilt on it. “What does that mean? The winter part?” he asked in equal parts excitement and confusion. He had never ventured into the eastern reaches beyond the borders of Shien, and tales of places that cold seemed to escape his understanding. “How can winter stop a funeral?” he insisted again, and
Azrael laid a hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s a saying from Mekh, in the province of Krava in Shönö” he answered. “It means that the freeze cools men’s hearts. They get used to it. Other than that, it’s also because the icy winds would freeze your tears before they have a chance to fall. Of course,” he added hastily, glancing at the man apologetically, “Those are mostly beautiful metaphors. Mekh is an amazing place at the right times. The Crystalline Caves are there, am I right?”

  The man’s golden eyebrows raised in surprised, but then he chuckled and nodded in acknowledgment. “Knowledge is a palace’s dome,” he said, measuring each word carefully whilst keeping his eyes on the necromancer. Azrael’s jet black irises brightened as a smile touched them, and he answered, “But bricks draw the eyes,” causing the man such surprise that a laugh escaped him.

  “You travel much!” he exclaimed, and ordered a drink for the necromancer, who gestured in thanks. They clinked glasses, smiling at one another and leaving Glint bewildered. “What was that?” he asked.

  Azrael laughed well naturedly, eyeing the warrior with a smirk on his face. “Should I really be answering the questions of a brat who parades me in my sleeping clothes in front of a roomful of people?” He asked mischievously, and Glint groaned.

  “Come, don’t be like that, I was just having a good time. Besides, you’ve done worse to me, haven’t you?”

  “True,” the necromancer said reluctantly, “Fine then. Because travelling between continents and regions is so difficult for the average man, there are many areas that have developed their own cultures, languages, and greetings. These are many and varied, deeply engrained in heritage, and it is therefore rare to see someone who understands another land’s customs well.”

  “I remember that much from the book you gave me,” Glint grumbled, remembering the difficult tome Azrael had tasked him with reading. Memory sparking, he turned in his stool to properly face the necromancer, almost knocking over the cup of orange juice Gared had supplied him with. Gared had gotten used to Glint’s apparent hate of alcohol by now, although it had astonished the one-time sailor at first. “I just remembered Krava! It was in the book as well, it’s where these old colourful palaces are, right?” He was starting to understand what Azrael and the man were speaking of.

  Vladimir finished his glass and sighed in satisfaction, then took up the explanation “Ah, if you but see them, young man! They are relics of an old past we do not properly remember. Massive, and each painted a different colour, seven in total. We call them the rainbow of the white sky, because that is what they look like from high up in the mountains: colours against a deep white night. People are often distracted by these colours and forget that the real beauty is in the dome: those are libraries, and each larger than you would imagine! This is much like us humans: we are distracted by a person’s looks or tongue, and we forget that it is the hidden treasure of the mind that truly matters.”

  Glint nodded, for it all seemed perfectly reasonable so far. “If travel is so difficult, then what brings you here, so far from home? If you don’t mind me asking, of course,” he added, seeing the bard’s grimace.

  The man shook his head sorrowfully. “It is no trouble, young man,” he answered in a patient manner, and Glint was relieved: he had been worried about offending the man. “I have business to take care of, northwest of here, in a town called Hindshelm.”

  Glint froze, unsure of whether he had heard the name quite right. Behind him Azrael, who hadn’t noticed a thing, piped up “Business that could take you on a voyage of many months?” he sounded rather surprised by this fact.

  “Indeed, you see, the music I have played you today was faulty, incomplete.” The man explained sadly. “This is because the instrument I play has been damaged a year ago.” He pulled out his lute, and showed the duo it’s glossy unmarked cream coloured surface. Glint began to say that he saw nothing wrong with the lute when the man flipped it, and there on the other side was a long jagged crack, spidering about five or six inches and spanning half of the instrument’s surface. It looked like an ugly wound, worked by a sudden and powerful blow filled with menace, the sort of thing that would make a man gasp if it were on a human being’s skin.

  “How can you even play the lute like that?” Glint asked in amazement. He couldn’t imagine good sounds coming out of an instrument that was damaged this badly. And to think he had counted this man inferior to Tim Dienst!

  A wide grin started to crop on Vladimir’s face, but he hid it behind a shy expression. “I am no ordinary lute player, mister Glint. In fact, this is not technically a lute. See how it does not curve? This is a grajha, and I am the master player in Mekh. It is an instrument from our fatherlands, from long ago.” Gared came to refill the glasses, and listened in for a bit as Vladimir continued his tale, stopping only to nod at the man in appreciation. “I was, in fact, the main entertainer for the master of a powerful guild where I come from. But one day, he became angry at me for refusing to play.” He took a sip from his drink before continuing, forcing Glint’s excitement to new heights. “It was my daughter’s first birthday, you see. One year from your firstborn’s birth, you keep your silence for a day, and music is a form of speech. It is its own language, understood by all but unravelled by none.”

  “And so, in retribution he struck me across the face with my gharja. He was sure to not harm me, but make sure my body breaks the instrument. He knew the blow would surely cause more hurt that way. This gharja is not just a tool for music, but a heritage. I have played it for him for more than twenty years, as has my father, and his father before him. Someday, my own firstborn will also bear that burden and honour. He has lived longer than me and should understand that well. No matter, bad deeds have a way to turn around, I’ve heard he was already met with misfortune near the border. I am glad for it.” with that, Vladimir’s eyes gleamed, and Glint knew this guild was the same one he had heard of: the Sparrow’s Tail on the borders that was heading to war but had its entire treasury robbed. He told Azrael of the matter as Vladimir seethed.

  Azrael raised his glass at that point, proposing a toast. “To his robbers!” he cheered, and the three clinked glasses. Two glasses of beer and a mug of orange juice made a pleasant melody together, Glint thought.

  “So, where was this old tired bard in his tale?” the bald man pressed on seamlessly. “Ah, the village. In that small village, there is a man of our heritage,” he thumped his chest proudly, “who had his heart stolen by a fine, good woman, with nimble hands and thoughts burning bright like a fire. We are an inventive folk, and are always drawn by knowledge, you see. He was a travelling merchant, of sound mind and heart. But when he met her, he was unable to ever return to us, for he had found his place in this world.” The story drew in Glint’s fantasies, and he found himself wishing unconsciously for the same kind of feelings. Alas he had never been captured in that way, but was still young. Glint was but a babe by the measure of an Ability user’s lifespan, for they could live hundreds of years. “I do not blame him for what he did, nor would many of my kin,” Vladimir interrupted Glint’s thoughts, “The only problem is, he was not only a travelling merchant, but one of our most skilled craftsmen, practically the only one who could repair this instrument of mine. Without his aid I am lost, and so I have come all this way to beseech his clever hands,” the bard ended his tale.

  Glint repeated the blue eyed bard’s words silently, and before he could say anything Azrael spoke up in the now suddenly invigorated atmosphere. “I wish to help you, if I can,” the necromancer said, and Glint wondered at this twist of fate. “If you would have our help- and if young Glint here has no objections- I would like for you to accept the company of two guards on this entire journey, to this craftsman in Hindshelm and back to your hometown. What say you?” the final words were aimed at Glint, but the warrior decided not to answer yet. Instead he thought about his entire journey thus far and how it impacted him. The warrior also meditated on how much more he had to grow
, both in power and spirit.

  When a minute passed, Azrael opened his mouth as if to ask again, but Glint suddenly exclaimed, “This craftsman,” startling both the necromancer and Vladimir, who looked pleased with the notion of having travelling companions and guards to accompany him on what sounded like a long weary journey. “Is his name by any chance Baldur?” he asked.

  Vladimir looked at him curiously with his big blue eyes, which at times seemed to be filled with winter’s frost. “What a knowledgeable pair you are, you and your partner. How in Odin’s name did you know that?”

  Glint sighed. “I thought it’d be him. He’s the only one who fit your description, you know. You were spot on about his wife too, she once threw a ladle at me for not knowing how to read as a child. You see, Hindshelm is my hometown.”