Kiing's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Kiing spoke into the glowing water. He gave it the shape of his grief. He told it about the messenger, the axe, the long road north. The blue light flickered but did not brighten. The well stayed quiet. He felt the cold creep into his knees. Time was bleeding out, and the water knew he was holding something back. He tried again. He offered the name of his brother. He offered the guilt of arriving too late. The runes on the stone dimmed. A shallow gift, the water seemed to say. Not enough. Kiing's hands tightened on the rim. Somewhere north, a black banner moved further away. He could feel the miles widening. There was one secret left. The one he had not said even inside his own skull. He closed his eyes. He breathed it in his chest like he breathed the anger. Then he let it out. "I am afraid," he said. "I am afraid I will die before I reach him. And I am more afraid that I want to." The well drank the words. The blue light surged. Pale mist rose from the water, purple and silver, curling into the air like a slow ribbon. It drifted north over the pines and pointed. Inside Kiing's head, the water whispered a valley, a frozen basin sunk between cliffs of ice, shadowed and deep. The king camped there now. Kiing stood. His legs shook. He followed the drifting mist through the trees until he reached the edge of the army's old trail. Broken spears. A black helm pierced through by an arrow, half-buried in snow. He picked up the helm, turned it in his hands, and set it down facing north. Then he walked.