Ricky TooHigh's Arc

Chapter 1 of 9

Ricky TooHigh walked barefoot down the road with his staff held far from his shoulder. The top of the staff smoked black now, not gray, and the wood under his palm felt like a kettle left too long on the fire. Three nights running it had woken him with sparks. He was old. His silver braid was thin. He had one job left before he could rest, and that was to hand the staff to someone who could carry it. Tonight it might burn through his hand before he found that someone. He saw the inn ahead and made for it. The sign said INN in iron letters. Warm light spilled from the windows. He needed a hearth big enough to bleed the heat off the staff, and a roof over his head while he tried. Inside, a young knight in red and black armor sat alone by the fire, sword across his knees, shield propped at the bench. Ricky knew the shape of that jaw under the helm. His grandson. Hunter TooHigh, who had not spoken to him in six years, since Ricky refused to teach him the staff at sixteen. Hunter looked up. His hand went to the sword, then stopped. "You're smoking up the room, old man." "I know." Ricky set the staff against the stone hearth. The wood hissed. A patch of the floor blackened. "It wants to go out. I can't let it." "Then drop it." "It's the last thing I have to give." Hunter's mouth tightened. He stood. The bench scraped. "You told me I wasn't ready." "You weren't." "And now?" Ricky held out his burned palm. The skin was red and cracking. "Now I'm out of time, and you're the only blood I have left." Hunter stared at the staff. The smoke climbed the chimney in a hard black rope. He set his sword on the bench. He pulled off one gauntlet, then the other. He walked to the hearth and knelt beside the old man. "Tell me how," he said. "Put your hand under mine. Don't grip. Let it choose." Hunter slid his bare hand beneath Ricky's. Ricky lifted his own away. For a long moment the staff kept smoking. Then the smoke thinned. The wood cooled. The black at the top faded to gray, then to a steady curl of white, the way it had smoked when Ricky was young. Hunter did not move. "It's warm. That's all." "Yes." Ricky sat back on the stone. His hands shook. "That's all it should ever be." Hunter looked at him across the fire, still holding the staff. "You're not walking out of here tonight, are you." "No," Ricky said. "But you are. In the morning. And I have a lot to tell you before then." Outside, the road went dark. Inside, the staff smoked white, and the old man began to teach.