The sound of footsteps pulled Opri’s attention from the chopping block. He glanced toward the forest path as a figure entered the halo of light surrounding the pitstead.

Bran.

Though still a youth, boyhood was shedding from him in droves. Just since last summer he’d shot up like a beanstalk—nearly a head taller than Opri now, like his late mother. A hint of pale stubble outlined recently sharpened features, giving him a hawkish appearance.

Nothing like Opri himself: squat and broad, legs like tree trunks, face with that squashed-in look. He wore a dark and curly beard. Mara used to make sure he kept it well maintained but with her absence the practice had slipped, the beard becoming scraggly and unruly.

Another figure materialized out of the gloom, a few steps behind Bran, swathed in a large cloak and hood that hid their features.

Opri’s brow furrowed. He’d left Bran to watch over Tellis. They had an agreement, unspoken but understood. Someone always stayed by her side. As the weeks had worn on that person had been Bran far more often than not.

“What are you doing here?” Opri called, pulling the ax from the chopping block in a single motion.

Bran paused for a moment, turning his head to the side. He said a few words to the stranger, too quiet to make out. The stranger nodded slightly, stopped some paces back as Bran turned and jogged over to his father. Bran stopped at the edge of the wood stack, and for a moment they simply looked at each other.

Finally, Opri broke the silence, “Tellis?” he asked, a strange mix of fear and anticipation rising within him.

Bran shook his head. “No changes. She sleeps still, but her breathing is steady.”

Opri nodded, then shifted his attention towards the hooded man. “Who’s your friend?”

“He came to the house,” Bran replied, “says he can save Tellis.”

Opri lowered the ax head to the dirt, grounding the butt of the haft with both hands. Setting himself in a wide stance, he breathed out slowly.

“No.”

“Father, please—”

“I said no.”

Bran pressed forward. “He’s a mountain walker. The power to heal with—”

“Enough.” His voice came out harder than he meant. Harder than he felt. He reached out a hand to squeeze Bran’s shoulder, voice softening. “Bran—”

Bran slapped his hand aside, taking a step back. “You would abandon her then!”

Opri said nothing. The stranger remained motionless in the shadows, watching.

Bran’s voice broke. “You are not the only one who hurts, father. We all grieve grandmother. We all—” He swallowed, forcing the words out. “We all grieve mother. But Tellis isn’t gone. Why can’t you see that?”

Opri was silent. They stood there for a few moments that stretched like hours. Opri stared into his son’s eyes. The boy was maturing into manhood, but in those eyes Opri still saw the child he had raised. Bran stared into his father’s eyes.

He saw coldness.

A terrible realization crept onto Bran’s face. “You’ve already buried her in your heart, haven’t you?” he whispered.

Jaw clenching, Opri looked away. More of a confirmation than any words could be. He wanted to deny his son’s words, but could he? Did he hide here in his work, out in the cold, because he could not bear to watch the life drain from his daughter’s eyes?

Or did he hide because he could not bear to see she still lived?

After a long moment, Opri spoke with careful precision. “Where did you hear of this man, Bran?”

Bran’s eyes lit up. “You will speak to him?”

Stroking his beard, Opri shrugged slightly. “I am considering it. Did he tell you of him himself?”

Bran shook his head. “I supped with the Tudors, not a few months past. The night after—” his voice faltered.

The night after Mara died. Bran had come home late that night. Normally, Opri would have scolded him for slipping in unannounced well after the sun had set. But each grieved their own way. Bran grieved in the company of others, lost in stories or games. Opri grieved alone.

Opri nodded, he understood.

Bran pressed on. “Bartholomew, the spice merchant, was staying in their spare room. He spoke of a man, called Mercygiver. Who had healed with a touch.”

“Quite the storyteller that merchant is,” Opri murmured.

“Aye,” Bran agreed, “but this was different father, I promise. He spoke with wonder in his eyes. On the streets of Cattal, a young boy had fallen and broken his leg. A bad break with bone jutting through torn flesh. As he looked on, a figure materialized out of the crowd. He knelt before the poor boy and placed his hand upon his leg. When he removed it, nothing remained but unblemished flesh.”

“And this is the same man…” Opri said, working the story over in his mind, “he told you this?”

Shaking his head, Bran said, “He didn’t need to. I knew it from the moment I laid eyes on him. There’s a… presence about him father, an unshakable strength of will. Speak to him, you will see it too. I know he can heal Tellis. I know it.”

Hope. So much hope in the boys eyes. A sentiment Opri could not say he shared. But as he looked at the boy, Opri knew it was not one he could dash away either. Opri turned his attention to the stranger, still standing a few paces away. He had to admit, there was some truth to Bran’s words. Opri felt something he could not quite place as he looked at the figure’s outline in the evening light.

Opri let out a slow whistle between his teeth. “Fine, I will speak to him.” Bran opened his mouth but Opri raised a hand, silencing him. “Alone.” Bran slumped, but nodded. “Go, give us a moment to speak privately.”

Bran turned and trotted off a ways. Though, as Opri noted, not far enough away that he could not overhear. Opri had a mind to shoo the boy off further, he raised a hand, then paused. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Stubborn to a fault, just like his father.

He shook his head, then turned and walked towards the stranger, ax in hand. As he approached, the cloaked man turned to face him.

“Hail, stranger,” Opri called, shifting the wood ax to rest comfortable against his shoulder.

“Quite a trek from town, this is.” The voice emerged from the hood’s shadow, features lost in darkness.

Opri nodded, throwing a thumb over his shoulder at the smoldering mounds behind him. “Aye. The townsfolk find the smell distasteful.” He extended his hand. “Name’s Opri.”

A pale hand emerged from the heavy cloak to grasp his. Opri noticed tight bandages winding around the stranger’s forearms, disappearing into his sleeves.

“You can call me Kael.” The stranger’s grip was firm but cold. “Odd, don’t you think, that people oft revile that which is necessary for the town’s breath? Without your efforts, they’d freeze within months.”

Opri shrugged. “Every society has undesirable work that needs doing, and folk that need doing it. It’s not all hardship. When grain runs short, we never go hungry. When the roof leaks, repairs come quick.” He paused, nodding toward where Bran stood a few paces off, pretending not to listen. “You’ve met my son, Bran.”

“I have.”

“He believes you can heal my daughter, Tellis.” Opri studied what little he could see of the man’s face. “Do you know of the sickness?”

“I know of it. Begins with a cough that tears at the throat. Then black lines beneath the skin.”

“Aye.” Opri’s voice went flat. “Started with my mother. Then my wife. Now Tellis. Always the same. A cough that won’t stop, then the lines, then…” He trailed off.

“The forgetting,” Kael finished quietly. “They lose themselves before they lose their breath.”

Opri’s jaw tightened. “You’ve seen it before then.”

Kael nodded solemnly. “More times than I care to count. The creeping death, some call it. Others, the Inkblight.”

“Inkblight.” Opri tested the word. “Never heard the name.”

“It’s old. Older than most remember.” Kael’s voice carried a distant quality. “The lines beneath the skin—they’re not the sickness itself, but a symptom. Like branches growing from a seed buried deep.”

“Can you reach the seed?”

“I can try.”

Opri appreciated the honesty. Kael made no promises he knew he could not keep. “How many have you cured?”

Kael was silent for a moment. “Some. Not all. The Inkblight is… capricious. It takes what it will.”

Opri squinted, trying to pierce the shadows. “You do not appear a healer. Are you god-kissed?”

The stranger’s mouth curved into a faint smile. “Alas, no.” He lifted his bandaged arms from the cloak once more. “I am but flesh and blood. No gold courses through my veins.” The arms disappeared back into the dark folds.

“Just as well.” Something loosened in Opri’s chest, and words he hadn’t meant to speak began to flow. “One of Caltair’s Brood passed through here months past. Kind woman. Her blood softened Tellis’ suffering, but not for long. It returned within days. She refused payment, said she’d failed.” He felt the sting of tears at the corners of his eyes, cold in the winter air. “And true enough, she had. Said there was nothing more to be done. That we should appreciate the time we had left. Two weeks after she left, Tellis fell into a sleep she hasn’t woken from.”

“I am sorry for the burden you’ve had to suffer.”

Opri nodded, then shook himself, drawing a sharp breath. “So what about you, then? What do you hope to accomplish that one of the golden gift could not?”

“My skills are of a different sort.” The stranger’s voice was quiet, measured. “The blood of the divine is like an ocean—broad but undirected. Mine is like a knife. Directed. Specific.”

“And if you fail?”

“She may die.”

Despite himself, Opri took a step back. “Die?”

The hooded head nodded. “It is not without risk. But it may also save her.”

Opri chewed on this, silent. The thought of placing his daughter’s life in a stranger’s hands sat ill with him. Yet what choice remained? Bran’s words echoed in his mind. And despite his reservations, something about this man eased the knot in his chest. Something he could not name. He seemed cold and strange, but not dangerous.

“What will you take as payment?”

“I require none.”

“Don’t be coy with me. Even the Brood take payment. You cannot expect me to believe this comes without cost.”

The stranger regarded him for a long moment. “I require only one thing, hearth-tender. A place at your fire. A chance to take some of its warmth. No more. No less.”

Opri balked. “Do you take me for a fool? What games are these?”

“No games, Opri. But do not dismiss the gift of a place by the fire.” The stranger extended his hand once more. “This is all I ask. I swear it on the name of my mother. I am bound to this agreement.”

An odd oath, but something in the man’s voice rang true.

“You are a strange man, Kael.”

He smiled. “Nor would I pretend otherwise. But I may be the only man in all the seven lands with a chance at saving your daughter. I may fail and she may die. But if you don’t allow me to try, she will die, this I can assure you.”

A chill crawled up Opri’s spine. Kael’s words held an authority, a certainty, he could not dismiss easily. “What are you, really?”

“I once bore a name you would recognize,” Kael said, waving a dismissive hand. “But that man is long gone. It matters little now.”

“And if she dies?” Opri asked quietly. “What then?”

Kael tilted his head slightly. “Then she will have died with a chance at living. Rather than slowly, with none.”

Harsh words, but true ones. Opri found he respected the stranger for not offering false comfort.

He reached out and clasped the offered hand.

“Then we’re agreed.”

Bran jogged back over, barely containing his eagerness. “You agreed? He’ll do it?”

“Aye,” Opri said, not meeting the boy’s eyes. He turned to Kael. “I must tend the mounds. Bran will take you to her.”

“Ah.” Kael’s voice carried a note of regret. “I’m afraid that won’t suffice. My skills are very specific. They require your presence, Opri.”

Opri’s jaw tightened. “It’s a delicate time for the mounds. I cannot leave them.”

“I will tend them,” Bran said quickly.

“Too risky. You don’t have the skills to—”

Bran barked a laugh, sharp and humorless. “I could tend these mounds at half my age. You doubt your own teaching?”

The words hung between them. Opri opened his mouth, then closed it. The boy was right, of course. He’d been working the mounds since he was old enough carry wood for the burn.

“Go to her, father,” Bran said, his voice dropping. “Please.”

Opri looked at his son—no longer a boy, really, though he still thought of him that way. Saw the desperation there, the hope barely held in check. Then he glanced at the mounds, smoking steadily in the winter air. Finally, his gaze drifted toward the cottage, where Tellis lay.

“Fine,” he said quietly. Then, louder: “The eldest mound needs checking in two hours. No more. Watch for settling on the eastern face.”

“I know, father.”

“And the youngest—”

“I know.” Bran’s voice was gentle now. “I know. Go.”

Opri nodded once, then turned and started down the path toward the cottage. Kael fell into step beside him, silent as a shadow. Behind them, Bran was already moving toward the mounds, taking up the work in his father’s stead.

The chimney smoke rose straight in the still air. With each step closer, Opri felt his chest tighten, his breath coming shorter. He’d been avoiding that door for weeks, only returning home when every drop of energy was spent. Now he walked toward it with a stranger at his side, toward his daughter who lay dying, toward a chance he didn’t dare believe in.