Sorrow and Song: Part 3 | Starlight Under Clouds

Chapter XII

This chapter switches back to Ailean & Co. We left them nine months ago (*winces*) on the outskirts of the Rodronian capital, Ailean having received permission and direction from the king to search for the Knives of Light. Douglas and Derek are fugitives from Rodron because of a murder charge laid against Douglas some years prior. If you need more background, ask me or check the Google doc, where I've also uploaded this new chapter.

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"I need a sword."

The young man spoke quietly, scarcely audible above the rain dripping off the hem of his cloak and the duller drum of the rest of it pounding outside. His cowl was still up, and only the sturdy, beardless chin showed out of its shadow.

Eoth Mardarveth heaved himself up from his seat, breathing in the after-smell of hot metal that drifted in from the forge room, and set aside the slightly crooked buckle he had been tinkering with – apprentices thought they knew everything. "I seldom do swords, lad."

"I'm sure you do good work. Will you show me what you have?"

The young man spoke the common tongue, with an accent that a man with more travel experience than Eoth could doubtless have placed. "Is it passing through you are, then?" said Eoth, shifting his weight, though he still did not turn to lead the visitor to the shelves.

"Aye, sir. I have come far and lost my weapon in the way. Others have the bow or the spear, but I've only trained well with the sword, sir; and I badly need one where I am going."

"Sa, sa; most travel these days is done best with a weapon. I do not like to sell my blades to every shadow that crosses this door, and I do not promise what I have will suit you, but come back with me and we will see."

Eoth had made up his mind; he did not like the adamantly lowered hood, but he liked the quick, respectful earnestness under the youth's words. He unfastened a shallow drawer at his feet and lifted out three swords, one of a broader, thrusting make and the other two long and double-edged. Handing one to his visitor, he gestured him to follow and led the way to the forge room, where a clear space near the center made for easier testing.

The young man held and hefted each blade in careful turn, though he handed the thrusting sword back to Eoth almost at once. Eoth watched intently as he put the other two through their paces. He had seen master swordsmen to whom their sword had become the master; when they lost it, they lost the better part of their skill, and had to learn all again with the touch of a new weapon. This man was a master who had learned not to become a slave, and Eoth both respected him and wondered the more.

"How did you lose a sword when you can handle one like that, lad?"

"It doesn't matter." The youth's voice was dismissive. He kept swinging the sword in its loose arcs and side-cuts, less surely than he had before.

He was good, very good, but he was young. And nervous.

Eoth wondered, watching the shadowed face, a flash of the nose as he spun, a knot of dark hair shaken into visibility... What was he running from?

He did not wonder long, for three hours after the boy had left, a grim-faced cavalcade drew up in front of the steelsmithy, left their horses in the now-misting rain, and came inside.

"Hathor," said the lead man curtly to Eoth – a tall man, square-faced, pale-eyed, whose close-cut beard looked shaggy with days of travel.

"My lord," Eoth answered with bent head. "Have I not seen your face before? You departed this smithy four years since with a knife, the twin to this one." He touched an red-enamel handled dagger arrayed on a rack in the midst of several dozen others. "It has served you well, I hope?"