Jack Frost: King of Thieves

CHAPTER XV: Rise And Rise Again, Until Lambes Become Lions

The winds on the Southern Isles Channel had died down at dusk, leaving the ship to drift slowly toward the Southern Isles. Jack and the others were awake below-decks, their small chamber lit dimly by candlelight. Peter sat on a barrel, blowing through the tubes of his flute, while Sinbad and Ester drank wine and sang along, their voices slightly off-key.

Jack sat apart from the others, lost in thought, staring at the palm of his hand, at the small mark that had been left there by the hilt of Jackson's sword. Sinbad had said something about a blood oath, but Jack knew better. This mark hadn't been made by anything so mystical. He still remembered the sting of it. Thinking this, he pulled the sword from the scabbard on his belt and examined the hilt closely. There was a copper wire there, holding a leather grip in place. It was wound around the hilt, its sharp end protruding slightly. He gripped the hilt as he had before when Jackson had put it in his hands. Yes, that was the spot.

He leant forward a bit, allowing the candlelight to fall more fully on the sword. The grip had a tear in it, and Jack could see that there was writing engraved on the hilt beneath it. He unwound the copper and pushed the leather aside, trying to read more of the inscription. He uncovered a single word: Lions.

Lions. Something stirred in the deepest recesses of his memory, like a bear waking after a long winter's slumber. He pulled off more of the wire and stripped away the leather grip until he could see the entire inscription.

"Rise and rise again, " it said, "until lambs become lions."

He stared at the candle burning before him, and he repeated the words to himself over and over. Rise and rise again, until lambs become lions. Yes, he had heard this before. But where, and when? And why would a sword owned by a dead Knight, a man to whom he had never spoken before the events of the past few days, bear words that should remind him so strongly of ... of what?

There were gaps in his memories, dark periods from his childhood that he had never been able to recall. These words seemed to take him back to those lost years. Like a small flame on a murky night, they hinted at something beyond his seeing, casting shadows upon shadows. The harder Jack tried to summon the images, the more elusive they became. Still, he knew of them now. Rise and rise again... Perhaps with time, the phrase would shine brighter in the recesses of his mind, and those shadows would be revealed.

And still, he gazed at the candle flame, Jackson's sword lying across his lap. Jack rubbed his palm, thinking once more of the oath he swore to the knight, and of Sinbad's words. An oath sworn in blood ... Perhaps there had been more to the day's events after all. What were the chances that they would take precisely that route through Cyan Forest, that they should happen upon the forest road just when they did? Had it been fate that led Jack to kneel at the side of a dying Knight, that led that man to place his sword in Jack's palm, that led Jack back to a memory so remote he hadn't considered it in years? What other explanation could there be?

Jack considered this as he unwound what was left of the wire and removed the rest of that leather grip. Nearby, Peter still played his flute, singing softly. Ester and Sinbad were playing a drinking game that Sinbad was destined to lose.

"How do we get off this ride?" Ester asked eventually, his words running together slightly.

Jack looked over at him. "This boat docks first at Elderraven on its way to Abita. We'll leave the honour of delivering the crown to them, and we'll be gone."

Ester raised an eyebrow. "Where?"

"North," Jack said.

The big man nodded once. "Suits me." He took another drink and handed the bottle to Sinbad. It seemed even the drinking game had grown too complicated for them. Best simply to drink.

Jack grinned, joined them. No sense in letting them drink all the good stuff.