And if they failed?

Then they did so in struggle, not by choice.

“You,” said Argoth, “are a lodestar shining in our bright heaven.” He loved him, loved him with all his heart.

He lifted Nettle’s head and placed the collar around his neck. Into a lock on the collar he fitted the end of the rod of pine.

“The collar is woven to draw the Fire forth. The rod will catch your soul. But we shall not burn it as the Divines do. No, we shall keep it as the testament of your sacrifice. We shall keep it in hopes of restoring you one day.”

He stroked Nettle’s hair. “Can you move your arm?”

Nettle just looked up at him. The wizardsmeet was taking effect.

“In reality any wood might do as a filter. But it was found long ago that pine held on to soul better than any other wood. Leave the bark on, and it holds it all the tighter. But bark can easily be chipped away. That is why this rod has been stripped. I will not suffer one particle of you to be lost.”

Argoth picked up the tongue. He inserted one end into the pine rod, the other fitted into the stomach, a weave of gold, shaped like a grip.

Collar, filter, tongue, stomach. All was ready. It was said that those who stole Fire opened themselves up to invisible influences from the unseen world. Evil skir or even Regret himself. Perhaps what he did was an evil, but the cause was just.

“The collar will grow cold,” he said. “Very cold. Can you blink?”

Nettle did nothing at first, but then he blinked once very slowly.

“I’m going to begin,” said Argoth. “We should have heated blankets, but that cannot be helped. I’ll just have to keep the hearth stoked.”

He hesitated. Nettle looked up at him with such serenity. He knew it was from the wizardsmeet, but the trust in his gaze was unmistakable. “I’m proud of you, son. I will not disappoint you.”

He took a breath, and the whole world seemed to hang on that moment, then he began to sing the ancient forms.

After a time a grayness seeped into the collar like a thin wash of paint. Argoth continued singing, and the grayness slowly darkened and turned black.

Minutes sped by and the blackness entered the filter and slowly rose up toward the stomach.

Without tasting a great quantity of Fire, there was no way to tell if it was polluted with soul. But this unused filter had been cut from a thick, long branch. It was three feet long, more than enough for the souls of a dozen men.

Soon Argoth was sweating with the effort, but he continued to sing and pull. Water condensed on the collar and rod, then the tongue. He stopped to build up the fire, but the water did not evaporate. Despite his efforts, a fine frost began to form along the collar.

He stoked the fire until the hearth could not contain it. An hour passed. He was drenched with sweat, his voice hoarse. He stopped to take a long drink.

Argoth smoothed Nettle’s hair back. Tears sprang to his eyes again, tears full of sorrow and pride. “We’re halfway there, son. You’re doing fine.” He raised the pitcher for another drink, then set it down, and continued.

He lost track of time. The Fire flowed up the rod into the stomach. He estimated what he was taking from Nettle-not mere days, but years. The frost spread from collar to the rod, then extended up Nettle’s neck and down his chest. He took off his tunic and spread it over Nettle’s chest, hoping to warm him. Then began again.

How much would he need? He had to quicken the thrall. He needed great quantities himself. He pulled and felt the stomach fill.

Nettle blinked.

Argoth looked down at his son’s face. Nettle’s eyes brimmed. Tears ran down the side of his face. Argoth pulled back his tunic and touched the collar. The tip of his finger froze to it.

He winced. So much. Too much. The frosted skin would die and leave a scar. He was sorry, so sorry, but he couldn’t stop yet; he didn’t have enough. “Just a little more,” he said and began to sing again.

A soft moan escaped Nettle’s lips. He turned his head, pain wrenching his face. Then he raised his hand, the one with the clan wrist, and grasped the filtering rod.

The wizardsmeet was wearing off.

Argoth felt Nettle’s wrist and sought to gauge how much Fire was left in his boy.

Enough to continue, but less than he’d thought. He’d drained so many of Nettle’s days away. But if he didn’t get enough the weave would never quicken and it would all be for naught. He saw the pleading in his son’s eyes.

“Courage,” he said. He could not stop now. To do so would be to waste all that Nettle had given. He gently pried Nettle’s fingers off the rod, and began again to sing.

Nettle tensed; his back arched.

Argoth chanted, grief welling up inside him. Perhaps they should have just run, the whole family. But he ground that idea into the dirt like he would a spider. He’d made his decision. He would see it through. Second-guessing, questioning, would only poison his resolve.

He continued to pull, watching his son’s slow writhe. “Lords,” he said. “Forgive me.”

Then Nettle spoke one word in a broken voice. “Father.”

Argoth closed his eyes. He could not continue. He would have to succeed or fail with what he had.

“It is at an end,” he said, his voice faltering with emotion. “Your test is past.”

He quickly removed the rod from the collar and began to chant the form of emptiness. It was a more powerful magic, and the blackness in the rod quickly leached up into the stomach. When he could see no blackness in the tongue or rod, he set the rod, tongue, and stomach aside.

Nettle lay upon the table laboring to breathe, then his breathing calmed and he fell asleep.

Sometimes people died during the rite. But if they made it to this point, they would live. Argoth left the collar around Nettle’s neck. It was still black, but if he left it there, the body would quickly draw back the essence captured within.

His mouth tasted like a bitter cucumber, a side effect he’d forgotten about. He put his hands to Nettle’s chest, trying to warm it, then added more wood to the fire. When he’d finally cleared the frost, he saw the skin underneath was dead and white, blackened in spots.

Argoth pulled his own tunic off and stretched himself along Nettle’s side, warming him with the heat of his own body. He held Nettle close until he could no longer feel the cold of his skin.

When he was satisfied, he clothed Nettle, then sat with the stomach and thrall. He pulled Fire into himself. Then he directed it to the thrall. When he began to worry that he would not have enough for the thrall and himself, he felt the weave quicken in his hands and thrum to life. It was metal, nothing more, but it felt like a living thing, like a snake in his hands.

He did not know what time it was and feared dawn had come, so he put the stomach in his pocket and clambered up to the room above. It was still dark, but he did not know how close morning was. He would have to wait to eat the Fire he’d need from the stomach.

Argoth carried Nettle from the cellar back to the study and laid him upon the couch as if he’d fallen asleep there. But he needed to get something to cover that neck.

He stroked Nettle’s hair again. Such a fine, strong young man. He wondered: What would he have become?

Argoth would never know, and the pang of that loss stretched as wide as the sea.

He kissed Nettle’s brow, then heard a knocking at the door. He crossed the room to the door and unbarred it. Uram stood there in the darkness holding a pry bar.

“Forgive me, Zu, but we thought something had happened. I’ve been knocking for quite some time. We need to be going; the Skir Master likes an early start.”

“It’s been a long night, Captain. My son has fallen ill.”

Uram looked beyond Argoth into the room. “I’m sorry to hear that, Zu.”

“Captain, if you’ll step aside, I shall call my family and bid them farewell. Then I will join you outside.”