“Oh yes. He bade me craft it when he became Grand Master. Near two years before I was done. May I?” The dwarf held out his hands.

“Oh,” Flyn relaxed and handed the sword over. “Of course.”

Rosheen’s shoulders fell. Looks like you are going to survive this day after all, you smelly dwarf.

Fafnir inspected the blade with his hands and his eyes, his expression joyful and a little awed. Meeting a long lost friend.

“It is truly a marvel, Master Fafnir,” Flyn said, clearly trying to make amends for his hasty temper. The dwarf stared a moment longer then handed the blade back.

“I thank you,” he said with a small bow. His thanks is not for the praise, but for the chance to hold the weapon again. Rosheen forgot her hatred for a moment.

“Well,” Fafnir said with a deep sigh. “I must be on my way. Ingot and I have many miles to travel before we may go home again.”

He is leaving?! “You are leaving?!”

“My goods are needed.”

“But,” Rosheen could not control her stammer, “but what about Padric?”

A glimmer of regret crossed the dwarf’s eyes. “The boy is capable. If he is alive, then he will no doubt keep himself safe.”

Oh no, I still hate you.

Rosheen cast daggers at his back long after he was out of sight. She could not seem to take her eyes off the gate, afraid to look away. She had never liked the dwarf, and those ill feelings had soured to outright disdain when he took her captive. But now that he was gone, she was frozen. Her world shrank to the courtyard and the wall and the gate leading out into the terrible clamor of Black Pool. Only there was no Black Pool, there was only the stone arch and the vines crawling across it and the swollen wood of the door beneath. There was only the space that Fafnir had just vacated, and he was her last connection. If she looked away, if she dared blink than what thin tether remained might break, and her last link to Padric would be lost.

“I am sorry, my lady.” Flyn’s voice.