The Black Pike hadn’t changed since Mallow last visited. The sign swung on its iron arm over the crossroads, gilt letters flaking, the painted fish more suggestion than creature. Smoke curled from the chimney. The yard was muddier, but all else was the same, a cobbling of stone and timber, tucked where the road from Ivath met the road north.

  Mallow remembered his first glance of Lain and her two Brighthand guards in the doorway, her hood up, trying to make herself smaller while the Heat made the air around her ring. He remembered how carefully she’d held her mug, as if the barley water were the only thing she could trust.

  He pushed the memory down. Saints knew he had enough ghosts already.

  Inside, the common room was as he remembered: too much all at once. The scents of smoke and ale tangled in the rafters. The wet-wool smell of travellers crowded the benches. Voices overlapped, dice clattered, and a song about the sea was being murdered slowly in the corner. Fat crackled somewhere in a pan; pine burned in the hearth.

  The only real difference was the mood. Once, this had been the easy noise of people ending their day. Now there was a tightness around it, a brittle thread of listening. Conversations broke off when the door opened. Eyes flicked to the ash-gray cloak at Tanel’s shoulders, to the little bells at his wrists.

  Dagorlind were still a common sight this close to Ivath, but not so common that one walked with a stranger at his side, marked with no sigil nor the Brighthand’s anointed arm.

  The innkeeper spotted them almost at once. He wiped his hands on his apron and bustled over, bobbing his head to Tanel.

  “Elder,” he said. “We weren’t told to expect a visit.”

  “Nor was I told I’d be making one,” Tanel said. His voice fell into the old pattern automatically, reassuring and measured. “Peace of the Underserpent on your house.”

  The innkeeper’s shoulders eased a fraction. “And on yours, sir. You bring news, then? About the Spire?”

  Mallow watched Tanel take that hit. “We’ve… come from Ivath,” Tanel said carefully. “Tell me what you’ve heard.”

  The innkeeper glanced around, as if afraid the walls might be listening. “There was smoke on the horizon, two days running,” he said. “Riders coming though at all hours. Brighthand from the lower posts were recalled in a hurry; they came by here like their boots were burning, wouldn’t stop to take so much as a mug. Then yesterday we had a couple from the south quarter, said the Dawn Spire’s broken.” His voice strained on the word. “They said the Underserpent’s bowl is buried. That the Bellborn –”

  He cut himself off, eyes flicking to Mallow as if only now remembering there was a stranger in veteran’s leathers listening.

  Mallow smiled without showing teeth. “Go on,” he said. “I’m hard to offend.”

  “The Bellborn is dead,” the innkeeper finished, in a rush. “Or gone. Depends which rider you ask. Some say she betrayed the city. Some say she saved it. All of them say the same about the Spire, that it cracked.”

  Tanel’s hand tightened at his side, knuckles white. Mallow felt the echo of it in his own chest, a hollow answering ache.

  “And Lord Balthir?” Mallow asked. “Any word from the estate?”

  A murmur went through the nearest tables at the name. The innkeeper rubbed the back of his neck. “Not from the estate as such, no.”

  “But you have heard something,” Tanel prodded. “Clearly. What are they saying of Lord Balthir?”

  “They say he’s a traitor,” he said reluctantly. “That he loosed monsters in the depths and tried to seize the Underserpent. That he flew off, maybe, grew wings like a falcon. Or fled on foot. Or died in the Spire. No one agrees.” His gaze drifted, uneasily, to Mallow’s throat. “They say there was a man with scales at his side, shining like coals.”

  Tanel swallowed. “Rumors travel fast.”

  “Faster than the truth, Elder,” the innkeeper said.

  “True enough,” Mallow said. Morgan’s spear seemed to burn against his belt. He’d like to take it off and leave it in a room if he could. Or throw it off a cliff, preferably, if one presented itself. “Speaking of truth, have you got two beds and something that isn’t fish?”

  That got a ripple of slightly more ordinary laughter. The innkeeper huffed. “Two beds, aye. Food as well as we can manage. We’ve had refugees through, but the fields are starting to wake.” He peered at Mallow again, weighing him the way he’d weighed Lain once: danger, coin, trouble. “You were one of Morgan’s men.”

  He didn’t bother to lie; his old captain’s badge was the only thing holding up his cloak. “Was,” he said. “Now I’m on pilgrimage with the Elder. Trying to see what gods are left standing.”

  That earned him another look he couldn’t quite parse. Pity? Respect?

  “Sit, then,” the innkeeper said gruffly. “I’ll have stew and bread sent. We’ll talk more when you’ve got something warm in you.”

  They took a table near the hearth. It was the same table Lain had sat at. The same angle of firelight. The same gouge in the wood where someone had jammed a knife too hard.

  Tanel sat with his back straight and his cloak arranged carefully, the picture of an Elder at ease among his flock. But Mallow knew better. He saw the way Tanel’s fingers worried the edge of his cup and the way his eyes kept snagging on the door as if expecting someone.

  The villagers watched them in that way rural people did when they knew everything about each other and nothing about strangers. A knot of older men near the bar whispered with eyes flicking between the cloak and the badge. A pair of women with baskets of mending took their measure in silence. A boy of about twelve pretended to polish tankards but kept sneaking looks.

  Stew arrived, thin but hot, with more potatoes than meat, and two heel-ends of bread. Mallow picked out the worst of the gristle and let the heat sink into his hands through the bowl. The first spoonful nearly unstitched him. It wasn’t good – saints knew it was awful – but it was so ordinary, warm and salted, so unremarkable, so of this world. For one bite he could almost pretend he was nothing more than a sellsword on the road again, with a troublesome pilgrim tucked under his wing.

  Tanel murmured a small blessing over his bowl. Mallow caught the familiar cadence: a thanks for shelter and food, and for those who served the Underserpent by feeding others. He’d heard it a hundred times, both out on the road and in Ivath, but here in this little crossroads inn, it sounded almost sincere.

  They ate mostly in silence. Snatches of other people’s talk filled the gaps.

  “... heard the bells stopped ringing, that’s when I knew…”

  “... my cousin’s boy was posted at the Dawn gate, no word since…”

  “... if the Underserpent’s gone, who keeps the sea from swallowing us?”

  That last one tugged at something in Mallow’s newly altered ribs. The wyrm shifted, faint and vast, like a sleeper rolling over on the pillows of his lungs.

  “You came from Ivath?” the boy doing the polishing blurted.

  “Tomas, mind your tongue,” the innkeeper snapped from the bar. “They’re eating.’

  “It’s alright,” said Tanel gently. “Yes. We did.”

  “Is it true?” Tomas asked. “About the Spire breaking? About the Bellborn gone? They said the Underserpent screamed so loud it cracked the city like an egg.”

  Tanel’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. “There was… a great sound,” he said, voice thin. “The bowl shattered. The city stands. For now.”

  Tomas’ eyes went wide, drinking in every word. “Will they build it again?”

  Mallow saw something in Tanel’s face falter, the neat lines of doctrine and duty suddenly unsure where to land.

  “I don’t know,” Tanel admitted.

  For a Dagorlind Elder to say those words aloud in front of villagers took courage. The room seemed to register it and nearby conversations dipped, then resumed in a raw tenor.

  Tomas nodded slowly, as if filing the admission away. His gaze dropped, fleeing the discomfort. It caught on Mallow’s throat.

  Mallow realized, too late, that in the act of eating he’d let his cowl slip. The fabric gaped just enough that the edge of scale showed through: a sliver of blue-white under his shirt, faintly luminous.

  The boy froze.

  Saints. He’d been careful on the road. It hadn’t occurred to him that the glow might show in a room like this.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Tomas’ mouth opened, but no sound came out.

  Mallow set his spoon down. “It’s impolite to stare,” he said, aiming for lightness and missing as he pulled the cowl up.

  “What is that?” Tomas whispered. “You’ve got scales.”

  Mallow’s first instinct was to make a joke. But the wyrm bells chimed faintly inside his head, the same sound that had woken him. He sighed and tugged the fabric aside instead, just enough.

  Gasps pricked around them. The scales along his throat and collar glowed dull and steady. In the reflection of a nearby glass he saw how it must look from the outside: like someone had pressed a fragment of the dawn’s light under his skin.

  Tanel went very still.

  The innkeeper came around the bar, wiping his hands on his apron in a way that was meant to display casualness but fooled no one. His eyes were fixed on Mallow’s neck. When he spoke, his voice dropped into the careful cadence of someone addressing a wild animal.

  “You’re not Kelthi. What are you?” he asked.

  Mallow had been called many things in his life. Bastard, sellsword, lover, captain, Ashborn. Saints knew there were other names for him. This was the first time he’d been asked that question this way, like a man asking if a wolf had walked into his taproom.

  “I’m alive,” Mallow said. “Which was not the expected outcome, I grant you.”

  Tanel found his voice. “The Underserpent marked him,” he said quietly. “Under the Spire.”

  A shudder went through the room. Some people circled themselves without thinking about it. Others just stared.

  “Sainted,” said Tomas.

  Then the boy dropped to his knees so fast his rag thumped wetly to the floor.

  Mallow recoiled internally while outwardly he tried to keep his expression from doing anything unfortunate.

  “Get up,” he said. “Your knees’ll freeze to the floorboards.”

  “Please,” Tomas said. “Please, sir, Saint –”

  “Oh, no,” Mallow said. “Absolutely not.”

  “– Saint Scaleborn,” Tomas stammered, not listening. “My ma’s sick. She’s been coughing since winter. The Elder says it’s frost in her lungs. If the Underserpent touched you, if you’re –”

  He couldn’t finish the sentence, choked as he was by hope.

  Mallow felt that hope like a blade in his hands. It was sharp and dangerous and far too much weight for this boy. It made the wyrm stir again with curiosity.

  He looked at Tanel for help and found none. The Elder was watching him with a horrified sort of fascination, like a man seeing a new branch of theology emerging when he was meant to be an expert.

  “You’ve got an Elder right here,” Mallow said, softening the edges. “I’ve no bells, no training, and I’m certainly not religious. And besides, I swear too much.”

  “You’re shining,” Tomas whispered. “They say the Underserpent took back its voice. I heard a man come through that said it. That it walked through the bowl and chose a new Bell. I thought it was a story. But you’re – please. If you could just… ask it. To look at her. To leave her here a little longer.”

  Mallow closed his eyes.

  He was no Bell. Saints knew he wasn’t a saint. He was a man who’d been in the wrong place at the right time, and he’d said yes to something vast because Lain had needed him and stone had been falling and he’d seen no other way out.

  But the boy didn’t know any of that. He just saw light. And in a world where the Spire had cracked and the Bellborn was gone or dead, what else did people have but stories about who the gods loved?

  “Mallow,” Tanel said quietly. Warning. Or plea? It was hard to tell. Mallow ignored him.

  “Alright,” he said. The word tasted gentler than defeat, but he didn’t know what else to call it. “Where is she, dammit?”

  The boy’s head jerked up. “Upstairs,” Tomas said. “Back room. I can –”

  “Walk,” Mallow said. “No running on stairs.”

  He pushed himself to his feet, biting back on a curse as his leg protested. Tanel rose too, instinct and training making him fall into step like a shadow. As they passed, people drew back to let them through. No one reached out to touch him, but Mallow felt the air tighten around his shoulders, full of breath held and prayers half-formed.

  “Don’t make a habit of this,” he muttered under his breath to the thrumming he felt building in his chest.

  The wyrm gave no answer, but the scales under his shirt warmed, a faint answering ringing once through him.

  Mallow stood in the doorway a moment, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. He’d seen enough dying to know frost-lung when he heard it. It was the slow thief kind of illness, not the dramatic sort. Tomas hovered at his elbow, practically vibrating.

  Mallow went and knelt, slow, careful, his joints complaining, beside the bed. The woman’s eyes fluttered open. She looked from him to Tanel and back, taking in the cloak, the badge, the faint light under his shirt, then shut her eyes again.

  Mallow took her hand. It was dry and too hot. Her breath rattled, skin sallow and thin. Someone had hung a little brass bell over her head. A bowl of dark liquid sat untouched on a stool nearby, long since gone cold.

  “Who mixed this?” Mallow asked, nodding toward the bowl. The scent of it was familiar but subdued by the cold.

  “My aunt,” Tomas said. “She said it was coltsfoot and pine resin. That’s what the Elder told her –”

  Mallow winced. “That’ll coat the throat, but it won’t touch what’s sitting in her lungs.” He leaned closer with a hiss as his leg protested. He listened to the woman’s breathing the way he’d been taught years ago on wet coasts and colder roads, counting the hitch between each rasp. He took her wrist, fingers pressing lightly, feeling for heat and rhythm.

  It was a deep fever, and a stubborn one. Frost-lung, just as the boy had said, but not yet the killing kind.

  “She’s breathing river damp,” Mallow muttered. “Needs something to draw it out. Something bitter.”

  Tanel shifted. “There is no apothecary in this village.”

  “You have a kitchen,” Mallow said. “That’s usually enough.” He turned to Tomas. “You got willow bark? Dried thyme? Anything sharp-smelling that grows where the ground stays wet?”

  The boy nodded frantically. “Yes. Yes, sir. My mum –”

  “Good. Bring it. And honey, if you’ve got it. Not much. And hot water. Bring the whole kettle, a bowl and a mug.”

  While the boy ran, Mallow shrugged out of his pack and dug one-handed through it, wincing. He pulled free a small wrapped bundle, stained and carefully knotted.

  “Didn’t think I’d be using this so close to Ivath,” he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.

  Tanel watched as Mallow unwrapped the bundle: dried leaves, carefully pressed; thin curls of bark; a scrap of root tied with twine.

  “You practice medicine?” Tanel asked with quiet surprise.

  “Herbalism,” Mallow corrected. “Medicine implies certainty.”

  He crushed the leaves between his fingers, sniffed, and nodded. “Good. Still good.”

  When Tomas returned, breathless, Mallow set to work. He talked as he moved.

  “Willow for the fever. Thyme to loosen the chest. Honey so she doesn’t spit it back up.” He glanced at the woman. “You’ll still hate it, though.”

  Her lips twitched, barely. He took that as consent. He mixed the herbs carefully in the bowl, then added hot water from the kitchen kettle to soak them in the mug. He waited just long enough. When he brought the cup to her lips, her eyes fluttered open.

  “Oh,” she rasped. “You brought… an Elder.”

  “You’re not getting off that easy, love,” Mallow said, steadying her. “He’s just here for show. Now drink. Slow.”

  She obeyed. As she swallowed, the wyrm stirred.

  It wasn’t like under the Spire, which had been dramatic and strange and godly. Instead what he felt was a pressure, coiling about his chest and tightening against his warmth, pooling in his chest and hands. He felt the wyrm recognize the work he was doing – not overriding it, not replacing it, but leaning in, like a breeze pushing him forward as he leapt a gorge.

  The scales along his ribs warmed.

  He placed a palm flat on her sternum, resting it there, and let the wyrm’s heat seep through the remedy instead of around it. He imagined the herbs doing what they’d always done: loosening, drawing, easing. He gave the wyrm that shape to follow.

  Here, he thought. Just a little help.

  The bell above her head chimed once, very softly, without being touched.

  The woman’s next breath came easier.

  Then she rolled slowly to her side, Mallow’s hand still on her chest, and after several difficult coughs, a slick of green left her mouth, and Tomas came forward with a cloth and wiped it free.

  The wet rattle of her breathing loosened. She rolled back again.

  She sighed, deep and relieved.

  Tomas made a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh.

  Mallow withdrew his hand at once, suddenly exhausted. “She’ll need more of that tea tonight,” he said. “And tomorrow. Keep her warm. Keep her dry. If the cough turns sweet instead of sour, send for an Elder.”

  Tanel stared at him. “You didn’t perform –”

  “– a miracle?” Mallow finished. “No. I made tea.”

  Back downstairs, the story spread faster than the smell of roasting onions.

  Mallow reclaimed his seat and his cowl, wrapping both hands around the mug the innkeeper pressed into them, barley water, cloudy and warm.

  “You brought the Underserpent’s mark through my door,” the innkeeper said quietly. “But you healed her like a man.”

  Mallow exhaled, long and tired. “Good,” he said. “I’d hate to be useful only one way.”

  Inside his chest, the wyrm’s presence settled again, quieter now, but not displeased. It was just listening.

  Someone behind him speaking in hushed tones with Tomas muttered, “Bless the Saint of Scales!”

  Mallow dropped his face into his hands. “Saint of Scales,” he muttered. “I swap out one old woman’s tea and suddenly I’m an icon.”

  Tanel raised an eyebrow over his mug. “You should get used to that.”

  “Anyone could have done what I did, so no, I really shouldn’t.”

  “You’ll have to. Rumor always travels faster than truth… and much, much faster than a man leaning on a crutch.”

  Mallow glanced at him sidelong. “You’re enjoying this.”

  “I’m preparing you,” Tanel corrected. “By morning, half the valley will know there’s a healer walking north. By the next village, they’ll know he glows.”

  Mallow groaned. “Great. Perfect. Can’t wait.”

  Tanel’s expression turned grim, but not unkind. “Saints don’t get to choose how songs start about them,” he said. “Only what they do next.”

  Mallow stared into his barley water. “I was hoping to choose something stronger than barley.”

  “Saints don’t drink.”

  “Exactly. Barkeep!” He raised his glass. “Got anything with a little kick?”

  The barkeep looked surprised. “Certainly. Didn’t know Saints drank.”

  Mallow groaned again. “I’m not a Saint. I’m a sellsword.”

  “You and what sword?”

  Mallow’s hand went reflexively to his blade, landing instead on Morgan’s spear. “Fair point,” he admitted.