“But we can predict the effects if I don’t, can’t we?”

Argoth said nothing. Such courage and trust-Nettle did not know what he was saying. Argoth had seen that ardent desire so many times in the eyes of youth going off to their first battle. None of them knew the sacrifice that lay ahead.

“Da,” he said. He held up his wrists with their tattoos. “Do you, even you, mock me?”

“No.”

“But you do. Every time you allow others to stand in my place on the patrols. Every time you assign your men to shelter me.”

“I don’t want to risk you unnecessarily.”

“Life is risk,” said Nettle. “I am now a man of our clan, a man of my father’s house. And I want to protect my sisters. My mother. I want to protect my friends. Would you prevent me? Would you tell me I am not worthy?”

“Son, you’re worthy.” He was more than worthy. He was precious. He was a prize that Argoth did not want to part with.

“Then pick me up, Father. Let me be your weapon. Let me be your sword.”

Argoth looked at Nettle, the desire burning in his eyes. Such a son!

“And if this takes part of my soul,” Nettle continued, “we will count it no less an honor than if I had lost an arm or a leg in battle.”

“I can’t,” said Argoth.

“If you did, would you be able to save Mother? Would you be able to save Serenity and Grace? Little Joy?”

If he took the Fire, he could spring the Skir Master’s trap. The odds were long, but there was the smallest of chances. “There’s no guarantee.”

“There are never any guarantees, Da.”

This would put his family at such great risk. But they were already at risk. They were already targets. He could kill them all tonight. Or he could fight and try to save them. If he failed, their deaths would not be easy. But if he succeeded. If he succeeded, he would save not only his family but the lives of many others. The Divines stole so much. They made so many people suffer. And Serah did have a chance to escape. Someone would surely follow her. But it wouldn’t be a dreadman.

He looked down at Nettle. He didn’t have to draw all his Fire. He didn’t have to kill him. He knew of no lore that could return the soul once it had been taken. They’d hoped such things would be contained in the Book of Hismayas. But none had been able to open that book. And Argoth could not make this decision based on a wild hope. If Nettle sacrificed himself, there would be no restoration. Argoth found tears in his eyes. Nettle reminded him so much of Ummon, his son of so long ago. His son who had ridden out and never come back. His son who he had risked unnecessarily. He wished this crisis had come upon them six months later. By then he would have brought Nettle into the Order, and Nettle would have been able to give him his Fire. But he knew that was a lie. He wouldn’t have brought Nettle into the Order. He’d pushed the testing off for more than two years now. He would have waited another year. They would have been in the same position they were now.

“Pick me up, Father. Let me stand at your side. Let me be a man and fight for what is ours.”

Yes, Argoth thought. Let us fight. Let us not falter in the moment of crisis. The Divines were no better than soul-eaters. And was he not a Root of the Order of Hismayas? An Order established by the Creators themselves to bring humankind back into the light. To restore that which was lost.

He looked at his son with new eyes.

“I will pick you up,” said Argoth. “You will stand at my side. And together we shall smite the enemy.” And if they died, then they would die with honor.

He reached out and took his boy in his arms and hugged him tightly, hugged him for what would be the very last time because if he did survive, if he came back from this battle, the Nettle he knew would be gone.

Argoth left Nettle in the secret room and went to the kitchen and put a pot of water over the fire to boil. He listened to the sounds of his family sleeping upstairs and a memory of Nettle as a little boy pushed its way into his mind. He and Serah stood to the side of the kitchen window spying on Nettle playing with Grace and Joy. Each child had a number of Nettle’s new, brightly painted wooden animals. The animals mustered a defense against raiders in the flower pots. When the waves of Bone Faces had all been tromped, gnashed, and thrown in the privy, Nettle’s pig said, “Want to roll in the mud?”

“A triumph celebration,” said Grace’s horse. Soon all the bright animals and the children were covered with mud. The children had played until dark fell, and Argoth and Serah had been content just to watch.

Tonight that little boy had shown his mettle. And Argoth, for all intents and purposes, was going to have to kill him.

Kill his own son.

But maybe not forever. His heart swelled within him, and then the water began to steam. He swung the pot off the fire. He poured steaming water into a teapot, brought a pitcher for himself, fetched a cheesecloth teabag, and returned to the hidden cellar. He was going to have to make a wizardsmeet tea.

A fire burned in the hearth of the underground room. Nettle stood at the case examining a rough necklace.

“That is your great-great-great-grandfather’s weave,” said Argoth. “A thrall that we will use upon the Skir Master.”

He took a porcelain crock on the shelf and placed it on the table. He unstopped the crock, removed a pinch of the small wizardsmeet leaves, measured a small amount into the cup of his palm, then put the rest back.

“Wizardsmeet has a stench that makes many gag. And not only does it smell but it will leave a taste in your mouth that will take a day to fade. But you need this, for your first response will be to fight me.”

Nettle picked up the cup. “How old are you?”

“I am in my ninety-sixth year,” said Argoth.

Nettle’s mouth hung open in shock.

“Before I joined the Order, I did what the Divines do-consumed Fire harvested from others to renew my body and extend my days. I was eighty when I joined the Order and swore to live by the Fire I possessed or that which was freely given.”

“Then I have brothers who could be my father.”

“No,” said Argoth, and he did not expect it to hurt so much to remember. “They were all murdered. But that’s another story.” He motioned at the cup. “It doesn’t need to steep long. You can drink it now.”

Nettle drank it with a grimace. Then he handed the cup back. It would take a few minutes for the herb to work.

Argoth motioned for Nettle to take the other end of the table, and they moved it close to the hearth. “Take off your tunic, then lie here.” He went to the case and retrieved the draw collar, tongue, filtering rod, and stomach. “You’re going to feel a relaxing comfort come upon you. Next, you’ll find you can’t move, not without great effort. Do not panic.”

Arogth laid the harvesting weaves onto the table beside Nettle. He covered Nettle’s lower torso with his tunic, leaving his chest bared. Argoth picked up the draw collar. “Do you know why weaves are so often made of gold?”

“Because it’s a noble metal?”

“Yes, but why is it noble?”

Nettle shrugged.

“You can make a fine, powerful weave out of willow. In fact, in some ways it’s better than gold, but only if the branches are still green. The moment the wood cures, it leaks, sometimes like a sieve. Gold, on the other hand, holds it tight as a drum. Gold can also be wrought into many shapes. You can pattern a weave with gold wire that’s impossible with plant materials or harder metals. Now I want you to look at this.” He held up the collar. “Such things are woven by Kains. And they would have you believe only they possess the secrets. But you see here that it is a lie.”

He paused. This was the moment where his words became deeds. One last time he considered giving up and killing them all with a quick poison. But he looked at Nettle again. He thought about the girls and their eventual children. He thought upon grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Sometimes the choices of one father or mother affected generations. Nettle’s might be the sacrifice that opened the way to thousands throwing off the yokes of the Divines.