Chapter 7: One Small Request
The armorers across the street were at it again. Their loud, ringing blows rebounded off every stone in the small room. "For heaven's sake, don't they know that some people might still be asleep," Fenoglio grumbled to himself as he pressed his pillow over his ears. "Ugh, I suppose I have only myself to blame, but why couldn't I have decided to put the armorers on the other end of town and the weavers over on this street?"
He lifted his head and squinted at the bright sunlight coming in through his window. "Goodness, maybe it's later than I thought," he exclaimed, swinging his legs rather stiffly out of bed. "What time is it, Rosenquartz?"
The glass man stopped stirring the ink long enough to glare at him. "How should I know? Do I look like a clock to you?"
Fenoglio threw the closest thing he could at Rosenquartz, which happened to be a quill pen from his bedside table.
Rosenquartz easily ducked the badly aimed missile, but gave Fenoglio an irate look all the same. "Hey, what was that for? Do you want to kill me?"
Fenoglio sat on the edge of his bed, pulling on his boots. "My dear Rosenquartz, if you can be killed by a quill pen, then I can only say that you are a very pathetic excuse for a glass man and it's high time I found someone else to stir my ink."
Rosenquartz turned his back on Fenoglio, making a great show of being offended. Fenoglio chose to ignore him and stood up with a groan. Yes, it certainly was inconvenient sometimes to live in a world where clocks were not readily available, but he had become proficient at telling time the way most everyone did: by looking at the position of the sun. He stuck his head out the window and guessed that it was probably around nine o' clock. "Goodness, it is late," he muttered, withdrawing his head. "I must be getting old." He yawned. "At least, I've got a relatively easy day today, no poems for Violente, the Black Prince, or anyone else. Only that stained book to copy out for Balbalus. Hey, Rosenquartz, where's that letter from the castle with the instructions?"
The glass man did not answer and kept on moodily stirring the ink with his back to Fenoglio. "Oh, fine, so we're not talking, are we?" Fenoglio said, glowering at the small, pink back. "Right, I'll find it myself."
However, he had no time to either scold Rosenquartz anymore or look for the letter, for at that moment there was a knock on the door downstairs. Fenoglio scratched his head in puzzlement. "Whoever could that be?" he said out loud, mostly to annoy Rosenquartz who disliked it when Fenoglio talked to himself. "Minerva doesn't have visitors very often, and I don't think there was anyone I was supposed to meet, not this early anyway."
Downstairs, he heard the door open, and a voice drifted upstairs, a voice he knew very well, even though he had not heard it many times. "Is Fenoglio here?"
Fenoglio ran to the window and stuck his head out again, straining to see down into the yard. "Heavens, whatever is Dustfinger doing here? He'd rather kill himself than have to talk to me."
However, he was not given much time to ponder this as another knock sounded on the door below. This time it was Minerva's surprised voice that reached him. "Bluejay! Please come in. What can I do for you?"
Fenoglio leaned even further out. "And Mortimer, too? I wonder what's going on."
"Maybe they've come to yell at you for sending their children to that other world," Rosenquartz snorted, momentarily forgetting that he wasn't talking to Fenoglio.
Fenoglio drew his head back in the window and stared thoughtfully at the glass man. "Do you think so? They'd better not. After all, both of them did agree to it, and, for heaven's sake, it was Mortimer who read them there." He grabbed his cloak from the bedside table and went out onto the stairwell, thinking rather worriedly about what Rosenquartz had said.
Minerva was half way up the stairs, but when she saw him coming down, she stopped. "Two visitors for you, Inkweaver," she said. "The Bluejay and the Fire-Dancer. They're in the main room waiting for you."
"Thank you, Minerva," Fenoglio said, peering at the closed door that led into the main room of the house. "Did they say what they wanted?"
Minerva just shook her head, and, taking a deep breath, Fenoglio went to face his visitors. They didn't yell at him, but all the same, neither of them looked particularly happy. Mortimer was fidgeting nervously with the hem of his black tunic, and Dustfinger was staring vacantly at a blank wall. Both looked as if they had experienced a particularly bad night. When Fenoglio came in, they looked up at him. Mortimer just looked worried, but Dustfinger shot him the distasteful look that Fenoglio had been expecting. He disregarded it, however – it still gave him a satisfied pride to see one of the main characters from his book at such close range – and sat down in his chair. Mortimer sat on another chair, but Dustfinger remained standing, his arms folded across his chest and one foot on the stone slab of the hearth.
Fenoglio cleared his throat slowly before speaking. "So, why do I have the honor of your visit? Everything's going all right, I hope."
Mortimer looked at his companion as if waiting for him to speak, but when Dustfinger only continued glowering at the hearth, he began. "I'm sorry, Signor Fenoglio, as I know you must be terribly busy, but there's something else we need written, and it's very important."
Fenoglio tapped his fingers on the chair arm. The obvious anxiety of his visitors was getting to him. "Yes, well, I guess if you had to come anytime, now is as good as ever. I've actually got some time to spare currently."
Mortimer nodded. "Well, then if you don't mind, we would appreciate it…"
"Enough with the formalities," Dustfinger interrupted, impatience pervading his husky voice. "He wrote them there, so I think he can help fix this mess. Miranda's in danger, and I need to go after them to rescue her. You have to write me after them, send me there."
It was a rare occasion for Fenoglio the Inkweaver to be lost for words, but this was one such occasion. All he could do was stare at his creation in confusion which only served to irritate Dustfinger further.
"Why is everyone finding it so hard to believe that I'm willing to do anything to save my daughter? Does everyone really think I'm that bad a person? So, writer, can you do it or not?"
Fenoglio found his voice again, although for a few seconds it didn't seem to want to function properly. "Y…yes," he stammered, "of course, I can do it. Very easy. Only have to change a few of the words from the original piece that sent them. I can have it done by two this afternoon, that and words to bring you back."
Dustfinger sighed deeply as if both pleased and distressed by the answer. "Just do it as fast as you can and be done with it," he said. "I'll meet you this afternoon in the same place that you met Silvertongue four days ago." He disappeared through the door, as if he couldn't get out of the house fast enough.
Mortimer took a longer time leaving. He sat motionless for a few seconds, his eyes with a faraway look in them, but then he slowly rose. "Thank you, Fenoglio," he said. "Really, I can't thank you enough."
Fenoglio watched his face. "Well, I can only hope that my words help. They aren't in too much trouble, are they?"
Rubbing a hand across his brow, Mortimer sighed. "We don't really know much except that we think Orpheus is behind it. I don't suppose you've forgotten him. But before I go, there's one small request that I need to ask you about…"
~o~o~
Roxane was in the garden, tending to the red anemones when Dustfinger returned to the small cottage. As he opened the gate, he saw her stiffen slightly, but she didn't turn around. He could sense the cold resentment radiating from her back, and he was almost happy that she did not turn to greet him because he knew her eyes would be cold, too.
He stood for a minute on his threshold, staring at her black tresses and trying to make up his mind whether he should talk to her or just go in and get ready for his trip. However, the decision was made for him when Roxane stood slowly, wiped some soil onto her plain gown, and turned around. Her eyes immediately met his, and he was torn once again between his wife and daughter, but he knew which one needed him more.
"You're back sooner than I thought you'd be." How cold Roxane could make her voice. He could hardly believe it was the same voice that sang so warmly of fire and love. Her bitterness was almost worse than his fear, but he had not expected her to understand.
"There wasn't much to say," he answered in a low voice. "I'm to go this afternoon."
He made for the door, but Roxane blocked his way. "How long will you be gone this time? Two weeks? Three months? Another ten years? My hair will be gray by then, and I will have spent more time a widow than a wife."
"I'm not going to be trapped again. I'll only be there as long as it takes to rescue Miranda. I have words to send me back this time."
"Rescue her from what? Your fears? How do you know this isn't all in your imagination?"
"You have to trust me on this," he answered desperately. "You didn't know Orpheus, and you don't know what he is capable of. I'm not imagining things."
He tried to squeeze past her into the house, but she caught him by the front of his tunic and held him close. Her hands quivered. "A woman shouldn't have to lose the man she loves more than once, but you have been dead to me twice already. Do not make me mourn you a third time."
A sob escaped her lips as she laid her forehead on his chest and trembled in his arms. "Oh, Dustfinger, I can't lose you again. It will kill me this time."
Helplessly, he squeezed her tighter. Tipping her chin back, he wiped the tears away, but more instantly replaced them. "No, Roxane," he told her, "I promise you won't lose me again. And I tell you this, I won't make you watch another daughter die, either." Pulling away from her, he pressed his hand over his heart and felt the strange powers he now possessed pulsing within him. He drew his hand away, and a flame danced in his palm. Slowly, it waxed and waned along with the beating of his heart. He put his hand over Roxane's, and when he drew away again, the flame was in her hand. She stared at it, and its pure light reflected in her eyes.
"Perhaps they're right when they say my heart is made of fire," Dustfinger whispered, and she looked up at him. "As long as the flame burns, you'll know my heart is still beating. Keep it with you, and don't despair."
She stared at the flame again and her lips moved as if she wanted to speak, but could not find the right words. In the end, she just looked back into his eyes, and he saw the gratefulness there. This time, when he moved to go into the house, she stood to one side and let him pass.
He possessed few things, but what he did have, he kept in a wooden chest by his bed. Opening it, he pushed aside two of the four outfits he owned. He was wearing his red and black fire-eater's doublet and pants, by far his most comfortable attire. The fourth outfit he had not touched for over twelve years, but for some reason he had kept it. Perhaps something deep inside him had known that he would need it again. He drew it out and laid it over his bed, staring at the familiar and yet strange garments that he would have to don once more.
He put them on, the rough pants, the drab button-up shirt, and the long coat that seemed so heavy on his shoulders. It was as if they bore all the weight of the bad memories he had collected while wearing them. Immediately, he looked back at the discarded fire-eater garments and thought about putting them back on, but instead he put them in the chest with a sigh. It would not do to be more conspicuous than he already would be. He smoothed out the crumpled coat absentmindedly as he thought about the light, soft black and red fabric of his doublet, and his hand felt something hard in the breast pocket. Reaching in, his fingers closed over a familiar cardboard box, and for a second, a smile hovered over his lips. Well, he didn't need matches anymore, but still it felt good to have them there.
When he came out into the main room, Roxane was sitting at the table. She had transferred his life flame onto the tip of a candle and was watching it grow and fade, but she looked up when he entered, and for the first time since he had told her that morning that he was leaving, she smiled. "How funny those clothes look," she said in a voice that was no longer cold. "Is that what they always wear in the other world?"
Dustfinger took his backpack to the table and removed his torches from it. He probably wasn't going to be using them any time soon. "Yes, I guess so," he said in answer to Roxane. "At least, I hope they haven't changed fashions in the last twelve years. With the speed at which that world moves, though, I wouldn't be surprised."
Roxane touched the coat hesitantly as if anything that came from the other world could hurt her. "It doesn't look very comfortable."
He wrapped up a dozen potatoes in a cloth and deposited them in his pack. "No, it isn't. That's just one of the many things I never could understand about that world. Sometimes, they seem as if comfort is the only thing that matters, but at other times, they couldn't care less about comfort and are obsessed with looking good. Not that I look particularly good," he said, glancing down at himself wryly. "But, they've proven themselves, I guess."
He wrapped several loaves of bread which disappeared into the pack then pushed it against the wall. Glancing at the light coming through the window, he guessed it was close to noon. Good, two hours before he would meet the writer.
The worry had returned to Roxane's eyes, but the coldness was gone. They looked at each other awkwardly, and Dustfinger tried to think of something comforting to say, but all he came up with was, "Well, I guess Brianna will keep you company while I'm gone, and I'm sure Resa will visit you if you feel lonely."
He knew they weren't the right words, but Roxane didn't seem to mind. She put her arms around his waist and put her chin on his shoulder. "Come out to the garden," she murmured in his ear. "You have time to make fire dance for me, don't you? If I never see you again, I want to know that the last time I did see you, you were happy. Fire always makes you happy."
Together, they went out to the garden and Dustfinger made the fire dance until he forgot everything, even time. And when he turned his eyes from the fiery patterns he wove in the sky, there were three people, not one, watching him. Silvertongue and Resa had come through the gate and were standing with Roxane on the doorstep to the cottage. When he saw them, he let the fire fade back away into nothing, and the brief happiness he had felt faded with it. He nodded to Silvertongue, went inside to fetch his backpack, then joined Silvertongue, Resa, and Roxane on the road again. It was not far to the river, but no trip had ever seemed longer or harder to Dustfinger.
