Athame climbs out of bed and gets dressed. It’s 2 hours before dawn, and her companion is passed out drunk. The entire inn is experiencing a booze induced coma, so there’s no need to be quiet. She puts on her equipment and lifts a backpack to her shoulder.
Out in the street the only sounds she can hear is the blood in her ears and the air in her lungs. Earlier that night, the king had held a memorial service for the soldiers lost when the Coaltongue went down, and the city is in a state of mourning. Half the folks went to bed early, and the other half went drinking. All of them unconscious at this hour.
The king had thanked the survivors and honored the dead, but no medals were handed out. None were earned.
I f*cked up the Brand. I f*cked up by not helping Gav in the engine room. I f*cked up by not seeing a major Kossuth artifact on board. I’m lucky they didn’t hang me.
But that wasn’t the end of her failures. Tonight she intends to honor one of her own. Someone else she had let down.
Hiking into the Cloudwood, Athame finds an eastern facing meadow. She drops her pack and begins gathering dead wood from the nearby trees. After an hour, her hands are covered in sap and dirt. Her hair clings to her with sweat, and she’s breathing heavy.
Hard work is always good penance.
Removing a camp shovel from her pack, she digs a head size hole, and produces a closed pine cone from a side pouch. Covering the cone with loose dirt, she marks the soil with a rune. As the predawn light grows, Athame builds a teepee of wood over the seed.
Standing back from her work, she watches the horizon for daybreak. When the sun finally makes its appearance, the sorceress pours her essence into the wood. The resulting column of flame towers 15 feet above her head and is visible for miles. Below the ground, the pine cone opens, and the seeds are pushed into the soil.
”The flame takes life as it begets life. I’m sorry brother.”
She turns from the inferno and heads back to Flint. The fire burns uncontrollably behind her and spreads to the grass of the meadow.
The Fey murdered one of Kossuth’s own. They should know better than to play with fire.