A Promise of Iron Brandon McCoy (howl and other poems TXT) 📖

The man stood as still as a statue. Anxiously, we watched him, waiting for some sign of life, some reassurance that he hadn’t just fallen asleep while upright. After what felt like an eternity, his copper eyes opened, and he began to move.

He raised his arms above his head as if pushing something substantial above him; it looked like a stretch at first, but the way his arms shook and trembled from the strain suggested it was something more. Then I felt it, gentle at first but steady and increasing in intensity. A gust of wind, trumpeted by the flickering direction of his candle, aimed directly at me. My clothing rustled as the wind blew around me. The sudden breeze ended as quickly as it arrived, and I was left straightening my coat.

Laughter and applause followed.

“Wind, huh?” Lira said, laughing. “I guess I owe you a copper.”

I looked up at the magician; he didn’t bother bowing.

He brought his hands to his sides for his next feat and carried them up like he was scooping water from a waist-high river. He did this several times, each time the act looking more and more labored as he poured invisible handfuls of water in front of him. Then he reached into his robes and produced a long black feather. He held it out for all to see. He even ran his hands around the air and feather to show there were no cords or string tethered to it. Casually, he tossed the feather forward and took another step back. The feather floated, suspended in the air just above the invisible pool he was creating with his hands. It moved and bobbed as it would riding upon a breeze, but it did not fall.

Applause came again, more enthusiastic than before as the Cyllian non-believers began suspending their doubts.

Without delay, the magician plucked the feather from the air and stepped closer to his lamp. He lifted the top cover, allowing the hot air to escape above. He held the feather there, several feet above the flame, then pointed his fingers flat towards it like a dagger. His gaze was focused, his arms still; they did not tremble or quake. Anticipation built like a storm cloud waiting to rain.

A wisp of gray smoke emerged at the top of the feather. It was subtle at first, but as it grew, the magician let go of the feather and closed his free hand into a fist. A small flame sprang forth from the feather. As it did, he dropped both hands to his sides and raised them to the sky as if lifting the very ground beneath him. The feather burst into flame, circling and tumbling in the air.

The magician reached for the lamp beneath the feather. He held it to his face, blew out the small flame that still flickered, then returned to the shadows at the back of the stage. The feather burned for another few moments, a pile of ash encircling it like a halo. Then it flickered out.

There was no applause at first—just the quiet awe that comes with seeing something truly remarkable. When our senses returned, we stood and clapped enthusiastically to the abandoned stage.

Lira brought her fingers to her lips and let out a sharp whistle. “Oh my, now—”

“That was weave,” I said.

Chapter Twenty and Eight

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

The entertainment over, Richard ascended the stage to address the crowd. “If you will follow me, dinner will now be served.” With a flourish of his cloak, he led us down a lantern-lined path towards the main house. There were small pathways covered with dark blue carpet that branched off the main trail. These led to secluded places in private gardens, places for those with an appetite for something other than dinner. We lost Monroe and his two companions down one of those trails.

When we arrived, we found the study transformed. Tables covered with fine linen dotted half the room, while the other half held a wooden floor for dancing. The musicians were already in wait at the far end of the dance floor. They greeted us with gentle songs befitting any lordly banquet.

Richard led my party to a table at the center of the room. It was covered in dark black linen—the only black table amidst a sea of white. As we took our seats, three chairs remained empty; this served as an invitation for other guests to stop and pay their respects. Crylwin did most of the talking; he was charming even when in his cups. Lira was even more so. When word got around that The Sorrow was her suggestion, our guests peppered her with flattery and questions about the song and where she had heard it before. She handled all of them with grace and explained the music and its hidden meaning so thoroughly that by the time the third group left, I felt I knew the story as well as she.

“Nice of you to join us, Edwin,” Ama scolded as Monroe returned from his absence a few moments later. He gave her a weak smile as he ushered his companions to the empty chairs. He took a seat in between them.

Now that our host had returned, dinner arrived promptly,. There was wild pheasant with a honey glaze, potatoes soaked in butter, and a display of little root vegetables farmed within the very walls of Windshear. The food was terrific, made all the better with dark wine from tall glasses. We were served plum pie for dessert; credit went to Ama’s hands—a beautiful lie. We ate to contentment; we drank our fill; we spoke of days long ago.

“He was nine, maybe ten when I first met him,” Kerry began. “He was tall for his age but as skinny as an alley cat. His clothes were more tatters than rags, so we went and fit him in a set of blue work clothes we kept around for the field hands. They didn’t