‘This is the most valued secret of our craft and only a handful of us know it. Now you are the newest to that secret. Guard it with your life. For it is what will some day earn you a fortune. Teach it to your son, or another you love as a son.’
Declan nodded, fearful to speak lest his voice crack. Edvalt had been a father to him, though for his entire life the subject was never openly spoken upon by either man. Moisture gathered in his eyes and he nodded again.
Edvalt returned the nod, swallowing hard. Then he smiled slightly. ‘If Baron Bartholomy pays the agreed-upon price, I shall never again worry about the future, even if you do not buy this smithy from me.
‘One more caution: should you be approached to make such a weapon, do not even admit you possess the skill until you have a sworn oath that such a thing’ – he indicated the sword Declan held – ‘will never be spoken of to another; you are sharing in this secret with Baron Bartholomy because he is the buyer.’ Edvalt paused, looking deep into Declan’s eyes. ‘This is your masterpiece. Not even your apprentice must know of the difference between jewel steel and king’s steel until you name him master of the craft. You may never have such, so do not let your fear of the secret being lost cause you to give this gift to a lesser smith. There will always be a few.’ He put his hand on Declan’s shoulder, his eyes glistening; softly he added, ‘I was ready to take this to my grave, save that you appeared.’ He swallowed hard and returned to his brisk manner. ‘Aye, and should you have cause to even admit to another master your knowledge, it is done thus.
‘When asked, “This is a rare blade. It’s a jewel of a thing.” Then if you do not trust to answer or the other smith does not know of such a thing as king’s steel, you give thanks for the generous appraisal. But if the man is a master like yourself and you need to speak of this, the answer is, “Thank you; I think it a jewel fit for a king.” Then you will know you speak to your equal.’
Edvalt stopped speaking. After a moment, as if anticipating something remarkable in his life, he looked around slowly. Declan followed the sweep of his vision and saw what Edvalt saw.
The smithy was located at the west end of the village of Oncon. Their location kept them downwind most of the time from the other inhabitants, so the smoke, soot, and noise was less bothersome. That was a happy accident of terrain and weather; the location of the smithy had been chosen because of the ample supply of water from the well and easy access to the road above.
Edvalt continued to look into the distance, and Declan tried to guess what Edvalt was seeing. Declan recalled little of his life before coming here at roughly live years old. Still, he paused and took in what Edvalt was watching, because something about this moment seemed vital to the smith.
The ancient village of Oncon lay on Covenant lands near the kingdom of Ilcomen and was typical of many of the Covenant communities. So close to the border, it fared poorly in bounty from travellers; most continued on eastwards to the village of Bashe, or westwards to Ilagan, the first town of Ilcomen. It was an unfortunate traveller who timed his journey such that he needed to spend the night at Oncon’s excuse for an inn; there were no rooms and guests would sleep on the floor, even under the tables. The town survived on trade with local farms, mostly sheep destined for Ilagan’s spring fair, and there were enough fish from the sea to feed everyone. No one was rich in Oncon, but no one starved.
The local area, called the Narrows, was a bottleneck between the Western and Eastern Realms, and the fast route for travelling between North and South Tembria. It had changed over the years, slowly at first, but lately things seemed to be getting more dangerous. The Covenant was still being observed for the most part, but rumours of troubles in the east heading their way had caused Edvalt to caution the rest of the villagers to keep alert to strangers and be ready in case of trouble.
Declan occasionally wondered about that larger world away from his home village. He could see the occasional ship pass by if he was outside the smithy, and sometimes wondered where it was from.
This village, in the small area known as the Covenant, bridging North and South Tembria, was Declan’s world. The rest of Garn consisted of five smaller continents. The two closest, Alastor and Enast, were populated by barbarians and warlords, some self-proclaimed kings, gathered in city-states and holdfasts, but they were considered unworthy of mention by civilized men. Only traders and outlaws risked travelling there. Or that was what he had been told as a boy by those who stopped to have horses shod, or their wheel band or yoke repaired, and took a moment to speak to a curious boy. One man had actually claimed to have travelled to Alastor, where he met men who had been to the other side of the world.
All that was known of the other three continents was their names; their locations were often contested by mapmakers, and they were reputed to be home to monsters, malignant spirits, practitioners of the darkest magic, and a multitude of horrors and wonders. Declan had always doubted those claims. He had met enough travellers and overheard enough boasting at the little inn in Oncon to know stories grew with time and ale.
But he only knew Oncon.
Declan thought it wasn’t a bad place to live. He enjoyed the weather, for the seasons along the shores of the Narrows were clement: summers warm, winters mild. There was always ample food and ale. The sea breeze picked up, as it did this time of day, and Declan drank in its cool freshness; he realised he was tired to his bones and parched.
Taking a drink from the bucket, Declan looked up to see Edvalt watching him. Just loud enough to be heard, the old smith softly asked, ‘What do you see, boy?’
Declan smiled. ‘Home.’
Edvalt nodded. ‘Aye, and not a bad one as such things go.’ He put his hand on Declan’s shoulder. ‘When you came here, you travelled with a family that wasn’t your own. They apprenticed you to me in exchange for repairing their wagon …’ His voice fell away. ‘It took only one glance to see their story was true, for you were a large boy, with eager eyes, and their children were all small, frightened things.’ He chuckled. ‘Mila was so angry that I’d taken in a lad who would be no help to us for years, for you were so young. Yet from the start you sought to earn your keep, struggling to haul the big coal scuttle, or bravely holding the fractious horses while I shod them.
‘But you won her over, lad.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You’re the best I’ve trained, Declan, and if I had a son of my own, I would want him to be like you. Should you wish to start out on your own, I understand, but if you’ve a mind to agree, I would be pleased for you to take this forge as your own.’
‘You’ve a lot of good years left, Edvalt, and I don’t know if … I don’t know.’ Declan hesitated. He wasn’t entirely sure how Edvalt’s offer made him feel. ‘I’ve been of a mind to set out and find my own way, settle down with a good woman, start my own family.’
‘Not a bad choice. Think on it. For today I pronounce you a master smith and my equal.’
‘Never that, master.’
Edvalt’s eyes showed his feelings, but being a man of few words, he could only put his hand on the young man’s shoulder, squeezing it lightly before he turned and headed into his home.
Declan remained alone for a while, as fatigue and emotion threatened to overwhelm him. Then after a few minutes, he followed Edvalt into the house.
Dockworkers hauled the ship into its berth in the north dock of the city of Sandura. Seven men pulled on a thick hawser, while two youngsters quickly arranged the wooden fenders between its hull and the dock, so that the tidal motion of the sea wouldn’t damage the ship as it rubbed against the stone. It had arrived in port on the morning tide, but by the time a harbour boat with a hawser had