“And I gladly accept it, Mallister Monsort. We will all feel safer here with you to help protect us.”

But from what? Elyon wondered what sort of dark forces he meant. Beasts? Monsters? Something worse? The brood of Brexatron, perhaps? Was one of them lurking here? He was about to inquire of that when Ilith said, “It is a shame, Elyon, that you did not bring the Windblade with you. I should have liked to have seen it again, after all these years. Did you forget it, pray tell?”

Forget. That was the lie he gave to Fhanrir. Did Ilith know of that? Can he read my thoughts? “No, my lord,” he said. Lie though he could to the mean little mage, he would not do so with the Forgeborn King. “I left it behind on purpose,” he admitted.

“Oh? And why is that, Elyon? Do you believe I would have taken it from you?”

Yes, he thought. “No,” he said.

“No?” Fhanrir rasped, snorting at him. “He made it, boy. Ilith, with his magic. Dark magic too, that was, like nothing you’d ever believe. How else do you shatter the heart of a god? He’ll take it back if he pleases, and you’ll have no say in the matter.”

Elyon disagreed. “I still have things I must do with it. I am its guardian, and will bring it here when…”

“Guardian?” Fhanrir scoffed. “Thief, more like.”

Elyon would not hear of it. “I never stole the blade. I took it back from one who did, and will bring it here when I must.”

“Must? No, boy. You’ll bring it here when you’re told. Ilith tells you to fetch it, and you will.”

Elyon shook his head.

“No? You’re to say no? You?” Fhanrir’s nostrils flared open. “Entitled,” he rattled. “You stink of entitled, and thief. The same as that miserable brother of yours. He tried to steal his too. Did you know that? Was one step away…just one step…”

“I’m not going to steal it,” Elyon said hotly. “I’m not my brother.”

“You are. You two are just the same.” Fhanrir gave out that odious laugh of his. “You see this, Ilith. The boys are as weak-willed as each other. You,” he said, in a deeper, guttural voice, looking at Sir Mallister Monsort. The knight’s eyes snapped over to him at once, as though drawn on a string. “You go back to the palace, right now, and fetch it. You bring the Windblade here.”

“NO!” Elyon said, too loudly. The word rang out through the forge, rolling into the corridors beyond, out through the vastness of the refuge. The sound seemed to go on forever; no…no…no… “I…I have so much…there’s a lot I still need to do.” The word was still echoing; no…no…no… Elyon could hear it screaming inside his head as well. The others had gone deathly silent. They know. They see. They’re going to take it from me.

Fhanrir broke the quiet. “Thief,” he hissed, lifting and pointing a withered finger. “You’re going to steal it. You’re going to run.”

“No, I…” Elyon shook his head in denial. He looked at Ilith. The demigod was observing him cautiously. “I won’t, my lord. I am no thief, I swear it.”

“I know that, Elyon Daecar,” the Worldbuilder said. “But I can feel the fear in you too. You are afraid to be parted from it.”

I shouldn’t have come, he thought. I should never have come here. “At least let me explain,” he blurted. “Let me tell you the things I must do. There are matters, with the Eye of Rasalan, and the cousins of the king. That is a quest I must see through, my lord.”

Ilith nodded pensively. “Perhaps that is so. But you also must weigh the risk, Elyon. You may not be a thief, but sooner or later, you will be overwhelmed. The force you carry at your hip is pernicious, sentient, and more powerful than you can know. There is no man living who can truly dominate a Blade of Vandar. Eventually, all bearers will fall.”

Elyon shook his head. “My father…”

“Will fall, in time. He may take longer to do so, but eventually, even he will succumb. The blades must be brought to me before that happens. We do not have very much time, Elyon. The shadow is stirring, and my strength…it is waning.”

“It’s time to let it go, boy,” Fhanrir said. “You’ve killed a dragon or two…good for you. But nothing you’re doing’s making a blind bit of difference. So you bring it here.”

“But…”

“But you won’t. Because you’re frightened. Just a frightened little boy afraid to lose his favourite toy. You like flying, don’t you, boy? You like being up there in the skies, looking down on everyone else.” Fhanrir sneered at him in disgust. “Monsort, go back to the refuge and get it. If he tries to stop you, run him through.”

Sir Mallister balked. “My lord?”

“You deaf as well as stupid? You heard me.”

“I…” Mallister looked at Elyon, alarmed, and then Ilith, desperate. “My lord…?”

“Don’t look at him. You look at me, Monsort.” And he did, unable to resist the power of the mage’s voice. “Aye, you’re serving us now. You’re here to protect us from dark forces at the door, and this man…” He pointed at Elyon. “Oh, there’s a darkness in him. So you know what to do, don’t you? There’s a monster in our midst and he needs slaying…”

“Enough,” Ilith said. “Fhanrir, enough. You have made your point.”

Fhanrir sniffed. “I’ve more to say.”

“You’ve said plenty. Wait outside, both of you. I would speak with Elyon alone.”

“Fine.” The mage clipped his fingers at Mallister as though he was a dog. “Come, boy. Seems we’re not wanted here.” They left through the door, moving out into the corridor.

Silence filled the air at their parting. It lasted a while.

“Elyon,” Ilith said softly. “Look at me, child.”

Elyon’s eyes were down, lowered in shame at Fhanrir’s rebuke. He did not feel the prince anymore, nor the champion, no Master of Winds and Lord of the Skies and serial slayer of Agarath’s spawn. Just a boy, as the mage kept calling him, a silly boy with a head full of dreams. Slowly, he raised his eyes.

“We all stumble occasionally, Elyon,” Ilith whispered. “We may trip and even lose our footing, but that does not mean we must fall. Fhanrir prods and probes in order to unveil your weakness, but in doing so, I can see your strength.” He stepped closer to him. Elyon could feel the warmth of his radiance, his divinity. Callused hands came up to rest on his shoulders. Ilith was not tall, not in the body of Tyrith. But he seemed a giant to Elyon all the same. “You hold no avarice in you, child. You have no great want of honours and spoils and to you the triumphs of battle have grown stale. You act selflessly, and for others. You love, and you care, and you are not given to self-conceit or pride. These qualities will stand you in good stead. They are a shield of light against the darkness…and I believe in you, Elyon Daecar.”

The words were like sudden sunlight piercing the storm, bathing Elyon in their glow. “You…you believe in me, my lord?”

“I do. I believe in you, and I will trust you. But that is not enough. You must believe and trust in yourself.” He paused, searching his silver-blue eyes. “Do you?”

Fhanrir had stricken him with doubt, but Ilith had blown it away like autumn leaves in a fierce gust of wind. He believes in me. The king who built the world. Ilith had spoken of wonders earlier. The greatest wonder in all history was him. “I…I do, my lord,” Elyon croaked. Ilith’s faith was like a new suit of armour, stronger than anything he wore. “Now…now I do.”

Ilith gave a tender smile. “Good. That is all I wanted to hear. So you go, and do what you must. Fulfil your quest, and be a hero to those who need you. I will trust you to bring me the Windblade when the time is right.”

Elyon drew a breath. “I will not let you down, Lord Ilith.” He spoke with great gravity. “I promise it. I won’t.”

“I know, Elyon. You won’t. Because you know what will happen if you do.”

He did. He knew.

“You have much to do, Elyon Daecar. This I know as well; I can see it in your heart. A great list, a great burden, such a weight to carry. But…if I may…permit me to lay one last task upon your table?”

Elyon went down to a knee. “Of course, my lord. Anything.”

“Smile,” the Worldbuilder said. He reached down and put a hand to Elyon’s bearded cheek. “A world without smiles is not one I care to live in, Elyon . So go from here with a smile on your lips, and remember why you’re fighting. You will feel better for it, I promise.”

Elyon stood, and as he did so, a true smile touched his lips.

“Well,” Ilith whispered, smiling fondly as well. “Now isn’t that better? Is not a smile a touch of light, ushered from the soul?”

Elyon could not agree with the demigod more. Light from the soul, he thought. It was one request he was happy to fulfil.