The Knife's Edge

Chapter Twelve

THE HARROWING GALE

Gray opened the door of the hut and was greeted by the aroma of stew. Throwing off his boots, he rushed to the fireplace. “When did you have time to make this? We’ve been out all day.”

Settling into a chair, Mura picked up his favorite dagger and began to whittle. “You were asleep. It’s been simmering all day, which might I add, is the only proper way to make stew.”

The whole house smelled of spices, onions, and roast chicken. Warmth seeped back into his numb fingers. Outside, the wind howled, and the chimes that hung from the low eaves crashed. “The wind is really picking up.”

Mura grunted. “Las Fael’wyn, the elves call it, or in the common tongue, ‘the harrowing gale’.” He continued his calm strokes, letting the shavings fall into a bowl on the floor.

“Fael’wyn...” Gray said to himself in thought, “Wait, isn’t it ‘wind’? I mean, doesn’t it mean ‘the harrowing wind’?”

Mura looked up in surprise. “How’d you know that?”

“Because you taught me...”

“Did I?” Mura asked. Gray couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Well then, I’m a good teacher. Yes, I remember now. I told you about the basic structure of Elvish.” He chuckled softly. “I might have skipped a few things for practical purposes, but, yes, that is what it means. Win is the Elvish word for ‘wind’.”

Gray repeated the term to himself and wondered how many things the elves had named. Grabbing a spoon that hung from the brick fireplace, he stirred the stew. His mouth watered and he eyed a piece of golden brown meat. He snatched it, and then juggled his steaming prize before popping it into his mouth. It singed his tongue and he yelped.

Behind him, Mura chuckled.

Gray turned with a glare. “Are you ever going to finish that thing?” he motioned to the piece of wood in the hermit’s hands that vaguely resembled a pipe. Instead of saying anything, Mura calmly put down his tools and disappeared into his room.

Gray heard him rummaging, and then dragging what sounded like a large object across the wooden floor. With a grunt of success he came back out carrying a dark blue trunk with a tarnished lock and gilded with silver oak leaves. He set it down with a heavy thud.

Grabbing the stool from the table he placed it before Gray, and then sat back down. “Sit,” he said. Gray had never seen the ornate chest before, and a thousand questions wrestled in his head. Shadows played on the chest, and the ornate silver looked out of place in the rustic cabin. From his vest pocket Mura extracted a key, and then inserted it into the lock. With a deft twist, and a scratching whine, it unlocked. Mura lifted the heavy lid. He hid the contents and drew out something. Then, he shut the lid with a bang, and relocked the chest.

In his hands lay a tome as fat as a brick. Gold and silver reinforced the thick spine. The hermit stroked the book’s worn cover. “Ages has it been since I’ve held this.”

“Where’d you get it?”

Mura words were quick, as if it was a well-worn memory much like the book. “I purchased it in the unlikeliest of shops, just shy of the port, in the city of Reym, when I was your age.” He must have seen Gray’s look of confusion. “Reym is a traveler’s city. It’s not far from the great Tir Re’ Dol, used as a waypoint. Many interesting things can be found there if one knows where to look.” Despite the hermit’s earnest tone, something seemed absent from his story. The hermit continued, “There is something I want to show you.” He peeled opened the book and Gray saw strange patterns upon the aged parchment.