Chapter 12: The Anvil

Hanjue climbed into the iron mould.

"Hanjue, wait," said Chuhe.

He didn't wait.

He lay down in the trough on his back, with his arms straight at his sides, and his silver hair spilled over the iron lip.

He fit it exactly.

His head rested in the hollow at the top.

His shoulders touched the curved edges, and his feet reached the end.

The old hearth behind them gave a deep thud.

Fire roared up in it, though nobody had lit it, orange and sudden.

Yan swore and stumbled back against the wall.

Hanjue's eyes were open, but he didn't see the ceiling.

The red light slid over his face, and his mouth opened.

He screamed.

It was a raw, high, terrible sound, nothing like a sword's voice, a whole man screaming at once.

Chuhe was across the room before it ended.

He caught Hanjue under the arms and dragged him out of the mould.

Hanjue clung to him with a grip.

"It's hot," he sobbed. "It's too hot, I can't, please, I can't, it's burning, I'm burning!"

"You're not. You're here. I've got you."

"Make it stop!"

The fire in the hearth died as suddenly as it had come.

The room went dark again except for Yan's lantern, and the sound of their breathing.

Hanjue sagged against him.

His whole body shook, and he was soaked in sweat.

Yan crouched down beside them with a white face.

"I'll watch the stair," he said, hoarsely. "A quarter of an hour. Then I'm dragging you both out by the hair."

He took the lantern up the stairs and left them in the glow of one dying coal.

Chuhe held on, and rocked him, and said nothing.

A long time passed.

Then Hanjue lifted his head from Chuhe's shoulder.

His eyes were red, and his face was bare of every cold thing he had ever worn.

"Chuhe," he said. "I am not a sword."

"I don't care what you are."

His voice cracked.

"I fit the mould. I do not know what I am, and I am so frightened."

"I'm here."

"I want you to make me sure of something."

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