As they grabbed their tools from where they had stashed them in Iona’s bakery, Garban’s hands were still shaking. He had even surprised himself with the way he had stood up to that brash warrior Gunar. He had felt like he had a backbone of iron, like he had a taste of the Old and it was pumping in his veins. Making him strong. Making him brave. Just like he had been in the old days.

  Now that the frantic energy of the moment had left him, his hands were shaking like tall grass in a gale. He was back to having a backbone like a willow switch, his shoulders hunching like an old crone’s. Now he was neither strong nor brave. Now he had cowardice draped around him like a cloak. Like he had for years now.

  In the chaos Garban had noticed something about that tall one: Brok. He had a stoppered clay vessel strung onto his iron chain. A container of Springwater, Garban figured, teeming with the power of the Old Magic. Elite warriors were sometimes given the title of Flask Bearer by King Alrik, and entrusted with a flask of Springwater. As with all exposure to the Old, it caused the chosen fighters to grow in strength and stature, and before a battle they would often drink the flask to give them supernatural strength and speed.

  Seeing it filled Garban with a roiling envious greed and he had to make an effort to stop himself from reaching for the flask. Brok would have surely hacked his hand off before he could have gotten ahold of it, but for a second that seemed worth it, if he could get a sip from the Spring. Even now, he felt the ragged edges of that ravenous thirst that had risen up in him when he saw the flask, setting him slavering like a hungry hound close on the scent of its next meal.

  He shook himself free of the thought. No good would come of chasing a sip of the Old. Never had, never would. The whole situation didn’t make a whole lot of sense though. Garban wasn’t sure why a blade carrying Flask Bearer would station himself in a small village like Ermont, but it couldn’t be because of some creatures creeping from the mist. Things weren’t adding up. But Garban had never been quick with his sums and this was a problem he was sure he should steer clear of entirely.

  He had been so lost in his thoughts he didn’t realize Alef, Fergus, and Iona had closed the door to the bakery and were talking, voices hushed and low. They still had that frantic energy about them. One of them must have asked him a question because they were all staring his way. That bit of wildness shining in their eyes left over from the danger. That, and what could have been a helping of admiration. Maybe even a tinge of awe from Alef. He clenched his fists so they wouldn’t see how bad they were shaking and took a deep breath so he wouldn’t be sick.

  “What do you think, Pa?” Alef asked again. Garban’s eyes had seemed unfocused, staring at the wall above Alef’s head, but they snapped back into focus when Alef finally got his attention.

  “What do I think about what?” Garban’s voice was hoarse and tired now, not anything like when he spoke so calm and steady to that warrior, Gunar.

  “What do you think about these warriors rolling into our town all of a sudden, after we haven’t had any garrisoned here in who knows how long?” It was Iona asking this time, her voice rising out of her whisper unbidden.

  “I think I’ll take them at their word. Not like we could do anything to find out otherwise if it isn’t the truth. Brok doesn’t seem the kind that would enjoy people trying to delve into his business.”

  “His business? It’s our business why he’s here, because it’s our town.” Fergus abandoned his whisper altogether, anger and fear making his voice strain and crack at the edges.

  “And what will you do if you somehow uncover their motives and you don’t like them?” Garban asked, seeming tired and worn. “Can you force them to go? No. Besides, they're here to protect the town. That’s a warrior’s job.”

  “More like they’re here to steal from us and feed off us like a crowd of leeches! They probably just got tired of paying for meals and houses up in Ulbrigant, so they sent them to be our responsibility.”

  Alef looked from Fergus to Garban. Fergus was obviously frustrated, still angry from his altercation with Gunar. Pa just looked almost as worn out as his old boots. Alef could see the sense in both of their arguments, and the indecision was tearing at him. After a second or two of tense silence that seemed to stretch out for an hour, Garban finally said “If that is the case, it can’t hurt to have them around and you can’t make them leave. We might as well just put on a smile about the whole thing. Nothing you can change about the situation by spitting fire at everyone.”

  “Maybe nothing I can do, but there could be something we could do. That is, if you weren’t so content to get your face pushed in the dirt.”

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  “That’s enough!” Iona barked, face twisted up with anger, finger poked hard into Fergus’ chest, so close to her husband she was almost telling him off nose to nose. “Garban probably saved your foolish, hotheaded life today. You should be thanking him, Ferg. I can’t believe you would insult him after the way he stood up for you today. That man,” and she swung her jabbing finger to Garban, “has been a good friend to us and is just trying to keep you from getting yourself killed. You should know better than to act like this, Fergus il Banon.”

  Iona was typically warm and kind like a sunset come to life, so her sudden fury swept away Fergus’ ire like a storm. Fergus hung his head for a moment before he looked up at Pa, all his rage turned to embarrassment as if by magic. “I’m sorry Gar. I’m all shook up. You’re a good friend and a brave man. I shouldn’t have ever questioned your backbone, especially in front of your boy.” His eyes shifted ashamedly to Alef. “Thank you for standing by me today. I owe you a debt.”

  He reached out and clasped Garban’s hand firmly and gave him an awkward slap on the shoulder, before pulling him into a hug. Alef wasn’t sure why, but Garban looked like he might cry.

  The sun was mostly set as Alef and Garban walked quietly back to their cottage. It cast long, inky shadows across the ground and across Garban’s face. It made him even harder to read than usual for Alef. He typically kept a blank, impassive expression held on his face like a shield, with only the occasional wry smile peeking through his defenses. However, Alef could typically catch a glimpse of how Pa was feeling by his eyes. Try as he might to keep it hidden, Garban’s eyes gave his thoughts away most times. Now even that was of no use. Garban’s eyes were lost in the pits of shadow left underneath his heavy brows.

  Questions for Garban were crowding at the tip of Alef’s tongue. It felt like he was trying to keep his lips sealed while he had a small colony of bees buzzing endlessly in his mouth. Finally, he couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

  “I can’t believe you stepped in front of that spear today.” His voice was quiet, but it sounded as loud as a yell in the still evening air. Garban didn’t respond, his shoulders only hunched a little farther, as if his son’s words were a blow he were trying to brace against. With the seal broken, Alef couldn’t help but plow forwards, letting the words spill out in a tumble. “It was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. Except maybe when Fergus tackled Jon out of the way of that falling tree. That was pretty brave I guess. But you faced down that warrior, Gunar, barehanded. Just looked at him and-”

  “It was a fool thing to do. Don’t know what got into me.” Garban's gruff voice cut off Alef’s waterfall of rambling, half-considered thoughts.

  Alef gave Garban the span of a few heartbeats to continue speaking before he plunged on. “A fool thing? You probably saved Fergus’s life. Iona even said so.”

  “And I almost got myself killed. If that happened, what would become of you?”

  That gave Alef a half second of pause, but the more he talked, the more he was becoming like a boulder rolling down a hill. Picking up speed and hurtling towards who-knows-where. “If it was the right thing to do, does it matter? Strength and honor, Pa. That’s what matters.” He didn’t say ‘right?’ but the unsure tone of his voice twisted the last statement into a question more surely than if he had.

  Garban had been walking at the same slow pace while they were walking, but he stopped now so that Alef almost ran into his back. He turned around and slowly lowered himself down onto a knee, so that he and Alef were closer to eye level with each other. Up close Alef could see past the shadows and into his eyes. There was a deep, tired, sadness there that Alef hadn’t seen there often.

  “There’s no strength or honor in getting yourself killed, Ale. Even if there was, they wouldn’t do much good for a dead man.” Garban’s voice came out in a sad sigh as he spoke.

  This wasn’t new territory for the two of them to enter into. Garban was extremely cautious and was always trying to steer Alef away from taking any risks. But he had never made his point like this. So strongly. It almost reminded Alef of what the scribe had taught him. What was that word she had used?

  “But that’s our purpose!” Alef almost never raised his voice at his father, but he was now. “We’re made to be heroes! We’re made to craft a Legend! And if we die our souls go back to the spring and warm the land!”

  “You’re not a hero! You’re my son!”

  Garban grabbed Alef roughly by the shoulders as he yelled. He had never yelled at Alef. Not in anger at least. It startled him more than Garban’s grip did, even though his fingers were digging into Alef so hard that he couldn’t help but squirm in his grasp.

  “I can’t be both?” Alef’s voice came out in a tentative whisper. All the anger had been sapped out of Alef, forced down back inside by the irresistible weight of his father’s.

  Garban’s anger seemed to rush away just as suddenly as it had appeared. Like a fire that had raged so hot, it burned itself out. His shoulders sagged back down, looking broken rather than menacing. His voice came out in a husky whisper, as though there were tears in it. “You’ll always be my son. No matter what. But please, others souls can burn hot to fuel the Spring. You don’t need to be a hero, you can just be my son. There is honor in that. There has to be.” The last of what he said sounded more like a reassurance to himself than a true attempt to convince Alef.

  He shouldn’t be a hero? The word that the scribe had spoken to him that he had been hunting for in the back of his mind suddenly sprang to the forefront: heretic. A harsh word to be sure. He would have never thought that the word would apply to his father, but now he wasn’t so sure. Strength and honor were his purpose. They were everyone’s purpose. He needed to build a Legend, be a hero. If not, what was the purpose? If not, their souls couldn’t fuel the Spring. The land would fall cold. His father couldn’t want that, could he?

  He realized he had been so lost in thought he had never responded to his pa, and was still looking into his eyes with a pained look on his face. Garban broke the silence again, saying “I don’t expect you to understand. But promise me you’ll be careful. Please.” His voice was pleading, almost broken. Alef couldn’t take seeing his father like this so he nodded wordlessly.

  A sad smile crossed Garban’s face and he let go of Alef’s shoulders. He smoothed Alef’s rumpled coat, his calloused palms making a quiet rasping sound as he ran them down the wool. Then he stood and drew Alef into a hug. He held him there for what felt like an hour, and the comfort of it seemed to set everything right again. His father couldn’t be a heretic. He was just cautious, and he loved his boy. Was protective of him. That didn’t make him a heretic. Did it?