* * *

Chapter One

Inferno

Bryan Dagger entered the kitchen, a book in hand. As soon as the heavy door banged shut behind him, Zina and Olivia Michaelson, who were kneading dough at the long counter, turned to look at him, exchanged a glance, and began to giggle loudly.

Bryan felt heat rise in his face, and a distinctly uncomfortable feeling formed in the pit of his stomach. Why was it that whenever he appeared in the kitchen, the girls began to laugh? Zina was not as bad as she had been, now that she was engaged to marry one of the soldiers, Porter Stephenson. On the other hand, Olivia giggled so uncontrollably whenever she was near Bryan, that the last time a visitor – one of the desert shamans – had come to the castle, Bryan’s father had forbidden her to serve at the high table.

It had not always been like this. When Bryan was a little boy, he had spent countless hours perched on a tall stool in the kitchen with the five little Michaelsons: Zina, Allan, Olivia, Kyle, and Elizabeth. Their mother, Diana, told stories as she cooked – tales of the adventures of great battle mages of the past. She had known Bryan’s great-grandmother, the sorceress Nadine, who had married Jonathan Dagger and first brought magic into the Dagger family. The children had listened to the stories with fascination and tried to steal apple cakes whenever the cook’s back was turned. Diana had swatted Bryan’s hand with her long wooden spoon as often as she had swatted any of her own children, even though Bryan was the son of the lord.

But then, when Bryan was eight, he had been sent to learn the craft of war as a page in the king’s court in Trimount. He had learned how to use the sword, lance, and bow, how to ride a horse, and how to interpret tracks while hunting in the mountains. He had studied battle tactics and strategy. He had been lectured constantly on the Code of the Knights, the moral code that set the knights apart from vicious and lawless marauders.

He was thirteen, a squire, when he returned to Twilight, and he found that everything had changed. Zina and Olivia now tittered when he approached. He could not think of what he could possibly say to them and so said nothing, which only seemed to encourage the giggling. Even little Elizabeth had started to laugh at him.

Bryan tried to ignore the sound of their laughter as he reached into a basket for a handful of nuts.

“Girls, girls, now that’s enough,” said Diana as she appeared from a storeroom, carrying a small sack of flour. Her daughters immediately returned to their work, but Bryan, through his magic, could sense that their amusement had not diminished.

“Bryan Dagger, is that a book?” Diana said loudly. She pointed at the offending object with the long spoon that she always kept at hand. Bryan flinched slightly, even though she had not hit him with it since he was seven, about ten years earlier. Zina and Olivia burst into peals of laughter again.

“You know better than to bring a book in here where something could be spilled on it,” scolded Diana. “What would your father say if he saw that in here?”

Bryan glanced down at the book. He knew exactly what his father would say: books were expensive, as they had to be imported from the lowlands. “He doesn’t even like The Rise of Westmar,” Bryan argued. “I doubt he’ll ever read it again.”

“You shouldn’t be so careless with valuable property.”

“I came here looking for food, not a lecture,” sighed Bryan. “Devon and I are working on enchantments today, and I’m going to need my strength.”

Diana nodded once. “As you wish, my lord.” She bustled around, slicing a loaf of black bread, generously slathering on fresh butter, and placing slices of dried beef beside it on a plate. “I’ll put on some mint tea for you,” she said as she handed the plate to Bryan. “You’ll need it after a magical draining.”

Bryan thanked her and hurried from the kitchen, eager to get away from her daughters. His mother, Lady Violet, said they acted this way because they liked him. And he was an attractive young man, at least according to every girl he had ever met. Aunt Lana said it hardly mattered what he looked like; he was the son of the lord and a sorcerer – and power attracted everyone. Lana often said that she hoped he would not marry a cook’s daughter, and Bryan was quite certain that he would not. How could he marry someone he could never talk to?

He sat down in the great hall, in front of the dark blue banner with two crossed silver daggers on it. The three long tables where the soldiers and retainers sat were empty. There was enough room in the spacious hall for another dozen tables; the garrison originally had been built to house three hundred soldiers, but they presently only had a tenth of that number. More soldiers were not needed. The pass of Mount Irisan was blocked with snow, severing Twilight from the rest of the kingdom of Kieghts for half a year. Even in the summer, moving a large number of men across the mountain would be difficult and dangerous, and the Daggers, with their magic, could easily prevent unwelcome visitors from entering the vale. To the west, there was only the desert, a vast, barren flat land that stretched to the horizon, and the desert tribesmen had not dared to attack the castle in four generations.

Bryan began to read. “The sword Zephra was imbued with the element of wind by the sorceress Natalya Zephyr,” he read. “Only her true sons and daughters have the ability to awaken the power in the sword, as it is bound to that bloodline. The sword moves with such speed and precision that wielding Zephra is like fighting with five swords at once. This sword was an important weapon for Natalya during the First War of the Crossed Swords, for it enabled her to fight as long as any warrior can. Unaided, a battle mage can only fight for ten to fifteen minutes before overextending and losing consciousness.”

“Lord Bryan, are you eating and reading at the same time?”

Devon Pierson stood nearby, his muscular arms folded across his thick chest. Bryan had not noticed him approach. He hastily shoved the rest of his bread into his mouth and hurriedly brushed the crumbs off the page. However, there was a smudge that would not come off. He wondered if he could use his magic to remove it, but it would be delicate work.

“What are you reading, my lord?” asked Devon, his tone barely deferential.

“The Rise of Westmar,” he said, holding up the book.

“Ah, you’re reading about the sword of Natalya Zephyr,” said Devon knowingly. “And how many times must you read that passage, my lord? Surely you have it memorized by now.”

Bryan clapped the book shut. “The sword Zephra,” he recited, “was imbued with the element of . . .”

“You see!” said Devon, throwing up his hands, but he was smiling now, a broad grin that revealed his square teeth. “You cannot learn anymore by rereading that page. Are you ready now?”

Bryan nervously turned the book over in his hands. “Do you think I’m ready, Master Devon?” he asked softly. “I mean, you remember what happened the last time I tried to enchant a blade.”

“As if I could forget,” muttered Devon, running a hand across his bald scalp. Bryan could sense his chagrin and amusement. A month earlier, soon after the harvest, Bryan had attempted to imbue a sword not with the element of wind but the element of fire. He had put too much power into the slender blade, more than it could contain. It had burst into a thousand sparkling shards. Bryan and Devon had been forced to throw themselves onto the ground to avoid being struck by the fragments, most of which were embedded in the walls of the blacksmith shop.

“You’ll know now when the sword has reached its limits,” said Devon. “And you know that you have to do the enchanting; the sword has to be attuned to your blood. Do you want the sword or not?”

“Yes, I want it,” said Bryan immediately, his pale blue eyes flashing like lightning. Ever since he had heard the story of Natalya Zephyr and her enchanted blade, he had wanted his own magic sword.

Four years earlier, he had returned from Trimount – for none of the knights there had been willing to take on a magically gifted squire, especially not one who had the ambition to be a great battle mage. Days after his return, he had gone to the blacksmith shop to beg Devon to teach him to enchant a sword. He had known that Devon was a sorcerer. At first, the smith had been very reluctant.

“I don’t know if I’m up to the task,” he had said. “I don’t have a lot of magic, just enough to make a blade keener and lighter and keep its edge longer.”

“You can make it stay sharp forever,” Bryan had argued.

“No, they still need to be sharpened at least once every century. Lord Bryan, only the greatest master smiths have succeeded in making the kind of sword you dream of having.”

“I’m certain that we can succeed, Master Devon,” Bryan had said, giving him the greatest compliment he could. Bryan constantly called Devon “master,” as was suitable for his mentor and instructor in the magical arts, as well as to convince him that he was indeed one of the greatest master smiths. Devon had been flattered, and he had finally agreed to teach Bryan alongside his apprentice, Allan Michaelson.

Convincing the blacksmith had been simply a matter of flattery. Convincing his parents had proved to be another challenge.

Lord Uriah Dagger had not been pleased with his son’s pursuits. He believed that Bryan should be studying with the master-at-arms, Sir Aaron Helm, or with the castle steward, Bryan’s Uncle Orrin. Bryan was the future Lord of the Western March, Baron of Twilight, and Knight-Commander of the Fifteenth Garrison. He needed to learn to command men, lead them in battle, and govern the vale justly. He did not need to know how to forge swords and shields.

When Bryan had told him about his desire to make an enchanted sword, his father had only shaken his head. “Bryan, do you know how many magic swords there are in Larelm?”

“Yes,” Bryan had answered.

“How many?” his father prompted.

“Four,” he said, but then his eyes flashed and he could not stop himself from adding, “And when mine is completed, there will be five.”

“Bryan, enchanting objects is difficult and dangerous. Men have killed themselves this way. They pour their entire life-forces into the object they’re enchanting, and this is a particularly painful way to die. I don’t want you to destroy yourself just so that you can have a magic sword.”

“Master Devon won’t even let me enchant anything yet. He says I have to learn everything about how a sword is made first.”

“He is a wise man,” said Bryan’s mother, Lady Violet, in her gentle voice. “It is good to be cautious around this kind of power. Uriah, I don’t think Devon would let anything happen to our son.”

“If he were more cautious, he would not make the attempt,” argued Uriah.

“If no one attempted what could prove to be dangerous, your great-grandfather would never have left Trimount and settled in the vale. Your grandfather never would have married a sorceress. Your father would not have made peace with several of the desert tribes. Even though there is risk involved, can’t you see that there could be a great deal of gain?”

Bryan had smiled gratefully at his mother, glad that he had her support. She did not doubt that he would succeed someday.

When Uriah did not respond, Violet brought up another point. “What about the rumors of the marauders? It’s said that they have their own battle mage. If the king is going to fight them, he’ll need one of his own.”

“Father,” Bryan had pleaded, “please, don’t forbid me from doing this.” He knew that if his father and lord commanded him not to enter the blacksmith shop again, the Code of the Knights would compel him to obey. Obedience was one of the governing principles of the Code.

Uriah had thought about it for several long moments, and Bryan had not dared to speak, but silently he prayed that his father would allow him to continue his work.

“Son,” Uriah finally said, “you’re old enough to make your own decisions. I can’t say that I approve of this, but I won’t forbid you.”

So, with his father’s permission, if not his approval, Bryan spent many long hours in the blacksmith shop. It had been almost two years before Devon had allowed him to start experimenting with enchantments.

His greatest success had been a shield that was as light as paper but virtually indestructible. Even though names were usually reserved for swords, Bryan had named his shield Windward.

Bryan followed Devon out of the main hall and down the three stone steps that led into the courtyard. The ground was bare and dusty. Not a cloud was to be seen in the bright blue sky, but the midwinter sun held no warmth. Their breath came out in steamy clouds.

They had barely started across the courtyard when they were accosted by Bryan’s fourteen-year-old cousin, Nial Shields. He bounded towards them exuberantly, his cheeks flushed, his green eyes sparkling with excitement, and his thick padded armor covered with dust. “Bryan!” he greeted him.

“Hello, Nial,” said Bryan in an overly patient voice.

“Are you going to the blacksmith shop? Are you going to finish the sword today?” he asked excitedly.

“I hope so,” said Bryan, but he was not about to promise anything. This was not the first time he had thought the sword would be finished. “Nial, why aren’t you in the training yards?”

“I had to pee,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Bryan, can I come with you and watch? Please?”

“No,” said Devon and Bryan together. Nial looked crestfallen.

“Nial,” explained Devon, “this is dangerous magic we’re working with – and it’s no place for someone who lacks the innate talent, like you.” Bryan had inherited the magic from his father, and Nial was the son of his mother’s brother.

“Besides,” said Bryan, running a hand through his blonde hair, “I don’t need any distractions. I’ve ruined too many swords by getting distracted at the wrong moment. Now, get back to the practice yards, or Sir Aaron will have to come looking for you.”

Knowing that Sir Aaron could punish him if he dawdled, probably by putting him to work in the stables, Nial took off at a run.

Bryan and Devon entered the blacksmith shop in the corner of the courtyard. It had a low ceiling, and Bryan had to be careful, or he would crack his skull on a thick wooden beam. Devon’s apprentice, Allan, was busily sharpening kitchen knives, and Devon ordered him out. Allan gathered up his knives and whetstone and hurried out with a rather sheepish smile on his face. He sat down on a bench beneath the lone tree in the courtyard and continued to sharpen his knives, his eyes on the door leading to the main hall. A few moments later, Sariah Shields came to join him. She pretended to be absorbed in making a gold and blue shawl, but the two almost immediately began whispering together.

Bryan tried not to grin. Everyone in Twilight knew that Sariah had fallen for the blacksmith’s apprentice, much to the frustration of her mother, Lana. The previous summer, she had constantly tried to send Sariah to visit other settlements, hoping she would find a fine young nobleman and marry well, as her three older sisters had. Lana was the daughter of an eastern baron, even if she was now the wife of a steward, and she did not let anyone forget that she was of noble blood.

Sariah had refused to go, insisting that it was too dangerous to travel away from the vale. There were marauders who terrorized the highlands, and the most powerful were led by a man called Moric, taking the name from the rules of combat in a duel to the death. No one was sure what his true name was or where he had come from, but he was dangerous. He even had a battle mage in his band.

“Lord Bryan,” said Devon. He held out a long sword. Bryan took it in his right hand and nodded in approval. It was a good weapon, the blade made of pure steel and the hilt of bronze. As he held it, he felt a twinge of trepidation. For years, he had worked to learn to enchant a sword. Would it work this time, or would he destroy this fine weapon?

“Put it in the fire,” Devon directed.

Bryan thrust the steel blade into the hot coals. He closed his eyes, reaching out with his mind for the magical forces that were his to command, for the elements that he could manipulate and bend to his will.

His senses enhanced, he could feel the heat of the fire beating against his body, the fibers of his woolen tunic, the smooth hilt of the sword in his hand, and the solid earth beneath his feet. The scent of smoke burned his nostrils and throat. He could hear the footsteps of the four watchmen on the wall as they paced back and forth to stay warm, the voice of his mother as she chatted with Lana, and the whispers of Allan and Sariah. If he listened, he could understand what they were saying. But he had to concentrate on his task.

Bryan took a deep breath, held it, and then grasped the flames with his power. The fire roared higher, filling the small shop with heat, and he could see red, even with his eyes closed. Bryan’s blood began to burn as he called on his magic. He gritted his teeth against the pain, waiting until he could adjust before continuing.

Slowly and carefully, he drew the fire into the steel sword. The blade began to hum, a low tone at first, and then it began to sing in Bryan’s mind, its voice high and clear, like the ringing of a bell.

Bryan heard Sariah laugh, and his eyes opened. He quickly pushed the sound out of his mind. He could not afford to be distracted, or he would ruin the blade as he had so many others, warping and twisting the metal, reducing a once fine weapon to scrap. He gripped the hilt with both hands. The blade was barely distinguishable from the coals of the fire. Flames danced and rippled across its surface like the swift waters of the Silver River.

He felt sweat run down his hot cheeks and back, matting his blonde hair and sticking his tunic to his back and making it itch terribly. His skin began to prickle as if he had spent too many hours beneath the sun. Bryan blew out his breath between his teeth, keeping his mind fixed on the fire in the sword.

The pitch of the magical song grew louder and higher, and then the sword began to vibrate in his hands. Bryan could sense that Devon was becoming frightened; the emotion radiated from him like the heat from the forge fire.

The magic sounded like a high-pitched scream in Bryan’s mind, and he nearly panicked. Just like last time, he thought, just before the sword burst. It could not contain more power.

Bryan had to act quickly if he meant to save his sword. He closed his eyes, prayed that he was not about to kill himself, and then grasped the power with his mind, pulling it out of the sword and into his own body.

A pain beyond anything he had ever known washed over him. His blood seemed to boil, cooking him from the inside. Bryan screamed in agony and let go of the sword. As soon as he released it, a pillar of fire erupted, filling the small shop, scorching Bryan’s hair and burning his bare arms. He stumbled backwards, unable to see anything, blinded by the fire and smoke, feeling only intense pain. He could not breathe. For a moment, he was convinced that he was about to die, consumed by powers beyond his ability to control.

Then he staggered backwards and found himself outside, clear of the fire. Halfway across the courtyard, he fell down hard and landed on his knees. He coughed and gasped for breath, his chest heaving. Wisps of smoke were rising from his tunic.

He finally gathered enough strength to look back at the shop. It was engulfed in flames, and a pillar of gray smoke soared towards the clear blue sky. The burning beams that supported the roof began to crack and collapse, sending up a shower of golden sparks. Bryan was amazed at how rapidly the shop was being consumed in the inferno, and he knew how close he had come to perishing as well.

All around him, men were shouting, but Bryan could not understand their words. The loudest sounds were the crackling of the hungry flames and the screams of panicked horses in the stables.

Bryan placed his forehead against the cool earth and tried to catch his breath. I’ve failed, he thought. Undoubtedly, the sword was being consumed in the fire. He had been unable to stop it from bursting as the last one had. His eyes burned, but no tears would come to his eyes.

He heard a magical sound like a deep horn, and he felt the ripples of his father’s magic wash over him, a shiver that ran up his spine and down his arms. Moments later, large droplets of water began to fall on his head. Bryan looked up, seeing a dark cloud that hid the top of the tower from view. However, the rain was falling only on the castle. Below, the vale was still sunlit.

Uriah Dagger had made a particular study of weather magic. In theory, it was fairly simple. The sorcerer located water and moved it to where it was needed. Of course, it was more difficult to locate water in the shadow of the mountains than it was in the green lowlands. But weather magic was essential for the survival of the people of the vale. Bryan wondered where his father had gotten so much water.

After several moments, the ripples stopped, but the rain continued to pour down on the courtyard. Once the powers were unleashed, nothing would stop the rain from falling until it had spent itself.

“Bryan!” Uriah raced across the muddy courtyard. “Allan, get Tasha out here, now!” Bryan heard footsteps as Allan ran to get the Healer.

Lord Uriah gazed down at his son, his light brown hair dripping wet, water running down the tip of his long nose, his piercingly pale blue eyes bright with anger and fear, though the rest of his face was expressionless.

“You could have killed yourself, Bryan,” said Uriah. “You nearly did! I don’t know why you’re alive right now!”

“My lord,” said Devon in a low voice, “be easy on your son. Do you realize what he did?”

“He burned down your shop, Devon Pierson. I don’t understand why you’re so calm about it,” snapped Uriah.

“It’s not the first shop I’ve had burn down on me,” said Devon. He took a deep breath. “My lord, when Bryan saw that the sword held as much power as it could, and that it was about to burst, he took the power into himself. If he hadn’t done that, more than my shop would have been lost. Half the castle could have been destroyed.”

“And why, Devon, were you letting a seventeen-year-old play with that much power?” demanded Uriah. Bryan wished his father would not shout; it made his head ache.

“All that power came from within him. Don’t you realize what a powerful family you are?” Devon motioned to the rain that continued to fall around them. “I know few sorcerers who could conjure up a rainstorm this size on a clear, dry day.”

“I had to drain the cistern to do it,” Uriah snapped.

“And my lord,” continued Devon, “your son has more than just talent. Hundreds of sorcerers have the talent; perhaps even thousands do. But he has the ambition and the wiliness to learn and the intelligence and . . .”

“Stubbornness,” growled Uriah.

“Indeed, my lord,” chuckled Devon. “He does indeed. Most men would have given up three years ago, but not Lord Bryan Dagger. Why did you think I forced him to learn how to work metal without once using magic for nearly two years? I had to be certain that this was not merely a childish whim.”

Bryan heard footsteps, and he turned his head to see Allan leading Tasha the Healer and her twelve-year-old daughter, Katrina. Behind them were Lady Violet, looking anxious and afraid, and her brother Orrin, who was frowning in concern and reaching out to comfort his sister. Lana stood in the doorway of the main hall, not wanting to walk out in the rain, her lips pursed with disapproval.

The Healer, a woman in her mid-thirties, with her yellow hair tied in a knot at the back of her head, brushed everyone aside. Tasha pried open a jar of salve which she smeared across Bryan’s burned skin, as Allan and Devon tried to explain to everyone what had happened.

“Does it hurt much, my lord?” Tasha asked.

When Bryan nodded, his teeth gritted, Tasha sent Katrina back inside to fetch something.

Bryan looked at what remained of the blacksmith shop now that the roaring flames were nearly extinguished by the pouring rain. The two wooden walls and roof had been nearly consumed; only a few blackened beams remained. The stone walls had been scorched and were covered with black marks. Several tools had been partially melted and warped by the heat of the terrible inferno. Fortunately, the fire had not spread beyond the shop, due to Uriah’s quick intervention.

Katrina returned with a flask, and Tasha held it to Bryan’s lips. He tasted a bitter liquid and forced himself to swallow. It eased the pain and made him feel drowsy. He closed his eyes and let the darkness claim him.

* * *

For the next three days, Bryan was in a haze of pain, sleeping often, waking only to swallow beef broth, chicken broth, mint tea, water, or the bitter medicines the Healer gave him to ease the unending pain. There was always someone at his side – his mother refused to leave him, or his father would sit in his room reading one of his beloved books, and often he awoke to find his cousins, Sariah and Nial, watching over him.

Sometimes, as he hovered between asleep and awake, he heard voices.

“You will not attempt to enchant another sword,” he heard his father say.

“No, my lord,” replied Devon. “When he wakes up, I’ll tell him. We’re done.”

“Are you sure that’s going to work?”

“We shall see, my lord. We shall see.”

Bryan felt a sharp pain inside his heart, almost as bad as the fire burning him. For four years, he had worked and labored in order to create a sword of fire, but it had all been for nothing.

Would merely telling him it was over convince him that it was true?

Perhaps he should not have tried. When he had decided to enchant a sword, he had not thought about what it might cost him. He had been willing to risk burning down his own home to get what he wanted. How could he have been so foolish and selfish?

And now it was over. Master Devon said that they were done.

Perhaps he could study more. But there was nothing more to study in Twilight. He would have to leave his home, perhaps even leave the highlands, and find another smith to teach him. He clenched his hand into a tight fist. He would not give up. He could not.

But his father would not be pleased if he left Twilight. And Bryan had a responsibility here, to his family and his people. He was the only son of Uriah and Violet Dagger, heir to the Vale of Twilight. His place was here. He could not leave.

It was the fourth day before Bryan was able to get out of his bed. He sat in his chair beside the window and looked out over the vale. The thatch roofs gleamed like gold beneath the winter sun. About forty dwellings, ranging in size from small huts to larger farmhouses, a large covered market, an assembly hall that could hold everyone from Twilight as well as those from the mining settlements of Silverton and New Mine, a water mill, and a tavern made up the village of Twilight. White sheep grazed beneath the leafless branches of the trees along the banks of the swift-flowing Silver River. The river flowed into the desert; a few of the dark-skinned desert people lived alongside the river as it made its way southwest to the Sea of Dragons.

The men were all hard at work, tending their flocks and fields, while the women were at the market, as they were once a week, exchanging as much gossip as goods. They were probably talking of how young Lord Bryan had burned down the blacksmith shop in another foolish attempt to enchant a sword. Doubtless everyone in Twilight, as well as Silverton and New Mine, knew what he had done.

The Rise of Westmar sat unopened on Bryan’s lap. He idly traced the spiral design on the book’s cover.

There was a knock on the door. His mother opened it. It was Devon Pierson. Bryan did not want to see the blacksmith. He would rather listen to the chattering of his excitable cousin, Nial, or the scolding of Aunt Lana, rather than see his old mentor and know that he had failed.

“Lady Violet, I wish to speak with your son. I have brought him something.”

“Of course, come in,” said Bryan’s mother.

Devon walked towards him. Bryan did not look at him. “Good morning, my lord,” said Devon brightly. “It’s so good to see you out of bed. We had a difficult time getting you up the stairs. You’re not a small man, you know. It’s a good thing we only had to carry you to the second floor. I don’t think all three of us could have made it to the top of the tower.”

“Master Devon,” said Bryan slowly, “I do apologize for what happened. I never meant to burn down your shop.”

“I know. Bryan, I brought you something.”

He heard the sound of metal on leather, and he looked up to see Devon pulling a sword from a sheath. It gleamed with a faintly reddish glow. Bryan looked at him in puzzlement. Did Devon mean for him to enchant this blade?

“Take it, Bryan. It’s yours.”

Bryan closed his hands around the bronze hilt. The sword hummed with magic. It was already enchanted. How was it possible? Suddenly, he gasped with realization.

“My sword?” he whispered. “Is it . . . my sword?”

“Yes, Lord Bryan. We are done.” He leaned closer, his voice trembling with excitement. “We did it. You did it.”

“It survived that inferno?” he said. “How?”

“Surely you know that enchanted objects are very difficult to destroy.” Bryan nodded. It would take another magical object of equal or greater power to harm an enchanted sword.

“And it was in fire, my lord,” Devon continued. “This sword cannot be harmed by fire, not when it contains the very essence of fire. Allan and I found this while we were digging through the ashes to see what we could salvage. Of course, we can’t be certain what it can do. You’re the only one who can call on its power.”

Bryan’s pain and weariness and despair were all forgotten. He forced himself to stand, gripping the sword for support, feeling strength enter him. He and his mother followed Devon down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

Near the kitchen, there was a large chopping block and several logs that had been hauled down from the pine forest, waiting to be cut into firewood. Devon placed a thick and heavy chunk of wood on the block and then stepped back, nodding to Bryan.

People appeared to watch: Allan and his father, the castle’s carpenter, who were rebuilding the blacksmith’s shop, the four watchmen who were posted on the wall, an extremely excited Nial, Sir Aaron and the soldiers from the practice yards, and Diana and her three daughters in the doorway of the kitchen.

Bryan closed his eyes, reaching for the powers he had placed within the steel blade. He found them without effort. The sword began to sing in his mind, and flames ran up the length of his blade, though the hilt remained cool enough for him to hold. And it took no more effort than the lighting of a candle would.

Bryan held his sword high above his head, and then he brought it crashing down, leaving a trail of red sparks in its wake. It cut through the pine, sending up wisps of black smoke as it did. It did not so much cut as burn the wood.

When the blade reached the stone chopping block, Bryan exerted a little more pressure, and the stone began to give way beneath the enchanted sword. There was a loud cracking sound, and the block broke in two, bits of rubble flying into the air. All the onlookers gasped in amazement. Little Elizabeth, in the kitchen doorway, squealed loudly. Olivia fainted, and Zina had to catch her.

Bryan stepped back, staring at the broken block, stunned by the power of his sword. In his wildest dreams, he had never expected to create a sword that was this powerful.

“Well,” said a voice, and Bryan spun around, startled to see his father standing on the steps leading to the main hall. How long had he been watching? “I suppose we shall need a new chopping block,” observed Uriah in a dry voice.

“Sorry, Father,” said Bryan, glancing down at the flaming sword in his hands. “I didn’t know it would be so powerful.”

“Nor did I,” said Uriah slowly. “I suppose you haven’t been wasting your time with the blacksmith, after all.” Bryan smiled and nodded, grateful that he had his father’s approval.

“Just imagine what that sword could do to a suit of armor,” marveled Sir Aaron. “Nothing would be able to stand against it.”

“Bryan,” called Nial, bouncing up and down on his toes, “what are you going to name your sword?”

The names of swords were important, as knights often shouted them as they charged into battle. Bryan had thought of and discarded a dozen names, but now he knew what this sword was to be called.

“Inferno!” he cried, holding the sword high above his head with both hands, letting the sunlight reflect upon its red surface. “I give my sword the name Inferno!”

Uriah nodded once. “It’s a good name for the sword of a battle mage.”