Avriel raised a hand. “I understand, Whill.” She paused in thought. “I will give you my sword. Beware, for it holds great power. Before my brother and I went on this journey to Kell-Torey, we were given gifts by many elves, gifts in the form of energy offerings. You must focus on Roakore, much as you did on Tarren. But you must not let your emotions get the better of you. Clear your mind. Think only of Roakore’s injuries. Do not let him take more than you intend to give.”
“I understand.”
Avriel locked eyes with him for more than a silent moment. “Do you? Do you understand that if you give him too much, he will drain the blade and die? Do you understand that if you are not in control the entire time, you may kill the both of you? Is that what you understand?”
If Avriel intended on scaring Whill, she had succeeded. He gazed back at her, now unsure.
“Remember, Whill, give him only what he needs. Do not take from the blade for yourself, and focus on his injuries. You can do this. I have faith in you.”
That was all Whill needed to hear. Together they walked the game trail back to the road. Rhunis had gathered everyone else’s water pouches. Upon seeing Whill and Avriel’s full pouches, he said, “That way, then.”
Zerafin was dueling with Tarren, each with a wooden stick as a sword. Tarren waved happily. “Look, Whill, Zerafin is teaching me how to fight!”
Just then Zerafin smacked Tarren atop the head with his mock sword.
“Ouch!” Tarren said with a scowl.
“That is your first lesson, young one: let nothing distract you from the enemy at hand.”
Roakore sat with Abram in the short grass at the side of the old road. They each sported a smoking pipe. Roakore took his puffs with great care, but tried to act as if nothing bothered him.
Avriel handed Whill her blade with a wink. He could feel the power within it. He took long, slow, calming breaths and went over to Abram and Roakore. He sat facing Roakore, the sword concealed on his other side.
“How do you feel?” Whill asked nonchalantly.
Roakore puffed on his pipe and began coughing uncontrollably. Whill noted that he had bloodied the ground before him.
“Do ye ask fer the elves or fer yerself?”
“I ask as a friend, and I hope you would do the same.”
“Bah, the pain ain’t nothin, just a few busted ribs is all. I ain’t gonna die from it, if that’s what yer thinkin. I know the elves are dyin’ to practice on me, but I ain’t asked fer help and I ain’t needin’ none.” He finished with a violent cough that produced more blood than before.
Whill thought for a moment. “I was raised partially by Abram, as you know, but I lived the first years of my life with a great healer. She taught me a great many things.” Roakore eyed Whill suspiciously. Whill only smiled. “Listen. You practically saved Abram and I atop that mountain against the Draggard. Let a man pay his debts the only way he can-let me help you. I know that you do not ask for help, but please accept that which I offer.”
Roakore eyed Whill for a moment and then went into another violent coughing fit. When he was done, and had painted the grass red with blood, he nodded. “Alright then,” Roakore said, swooning. “What did ye have in mind?”
“Lie on your back, if you will. And close your eyes.”
Roakore wearily obeyed. Abram gave Whill a suspicious look, but Whill only winked. In his left hand he clenched Avriel’s blade. He let his right hand fall upon Roakore’s chest. At first he did not take from the sword, but rather he used his right hand and grazed Roakore’s chest in circular motions. He cleared his mind, focusing his entire being on his friend. Very slowly he tapped the energy within Avriel’s sword. He jolted slightly as he felt the first waves of power flow from the sword and into his body. He had the sudden urge to indulge in his first instinct, to take from the sword for himself. To make the power within his own. He closed his eyes and frowned, fighting back the urge. He guided the energy from the sword through his body and into Roakore’s chest.
Zerafin walked over to his sister, who was watching Whill from afar as he knelt before the prone dwarf. Zerafin spoke to her with his mind.
Tell me you didn’t give him your sword to heal the dwarf.
Avriel smiled mischievously. You think he is not ready?
Of course he is not ready! He has had no training in the ways of healing. Yet you give him your own blade!
Avriel looked not at her brother but rather kept watch over Whill. He has healed before. Yes, I know what you will say-he almost killed himself. But I believe he can do this. I believe in Adimorda, and so I must believe in Whill of Agora. He is our only hope, dear brother. You know this as well as I. And so we must let him do as he will.
Zerafin did not take his eyes from his sister. He had known Avriel all her life, and he knew her heart better than any.
“You love him.” Zerafin spoke aloud now.
Slowly Avriel met her brother’s gaze. She could not lie to him, even if she wanted to, She smiled to herself as she pondered his statement.
“It seems I do.”
Zerafin breathed heavily “You know what is said about such matters.”
“But do I care?” she snapped back. “Nay. Many elves have forsaken love for law, but to what end? We have hid away for centuries in Elladrindellia, venturing from our given lands only to help in the wars. We-you and I, all of us-have met humans whom we liked, even loved.” She took his arm. “Yes, brother, remember, even you have fancied a human woman.”
Zerafin turned on his sister. “And now she is dead! Centuries lie in the wake of her last breath.”
Avriel made her tone soft in the face of her anguished brother. “That she is, but had you been allowed to teach her, to show her our ways, would she not be here today? I fear we have erred in not allowing such unions. Elves and humans both would be better off now if we had shared more in the past.”
“You forget, this is a law laid down by the elders, our mother among them.”
“Laws change like the seasons. Who better than I to change them? I will one day be an elder. Or you, Zerafin. You have only to take it and the throne of Elladrindellia will be yours. Mother wishes it. ”
“You know that I will not! I believe Father to be alive, somewhere.”
Avriel looked mournfully upon her brother. “Zerafin, Drindellia fell. Why do you hold on to this…”
“This what, sister? Fantasy? Has not this Whill been your fantasy since childhood, a fantasy now come true? So allow me this: I know it may not seem logical, but I feel that our father is alive.”
Whill dared not open his eyes. Behind his lids he could see the faint blue light. The power surged through him now; it came like a rushing river. The mental dam he had built had been overrun. Roakore’s damaged body was taking all that it could, more than it needed. The dwarf’s chest heaved and his body stiffened. Whill tried with all his might to let go, let go of the sword, let go of Roakore. But he could not. He was but a vessel now, no more in control than a man in an avalanche. He gathered all his mental strength, summoned all his willpower, and with everything in him his mind screamed to the sword, STOP!
To his amazement, it subsided. He opened his eyes to find Roakore lying still before him. Abram, Rhunis, and an amazed-looking Tarren stared down at him. Whill lifted the sword of Avriel and looked upon it with in wonder. Leirva, the sword of the elf maiden of Elladrindellia-he had wielded it. Avriel and Zerafin came over to him.
Avriel offered Whill a smile. “I knew you could do it.” She extended her arm to take the sword.
“You did well, Whill, very well,” said Zerafin.
Whill handed over the powerful blade. “What of Roakore?”
Avriel and Zerafin both regarded the dwarf. Avriel laughed. “Well he seems to be fully healed, and then some.”
“Yes, our gruff friend should be awake any moment and full of dragon piss.”