The Crafter's Son: Book One of the Exciting New Coming of Age Epic Fantasy Series, The Crafter Chronicles

by Matthew Berg

  They turned a corner and were well out of sight of the tinker’s booth when his father stopped walking and asked Breeden to pass him the chisels so he could examine them more carefully. His father looked around almost nervously and then pulled one out of the bag and gave it a once-over. The chisel looked serviceable, and the metal was free of rust. And it felt good in his hand. But there was nothing about it that struck him as remarkably different from many of the other blades the tinker had offered for sale.

  “So, what made you choose these four from among all those dozens of tools?”

  Breeden shrugged his shoulders. “They are aligned better than the others.” He struggled for a moment before continuing. “Like straight rows of barley versus crooked ones, I suppose. And there are no obvious weak spots in the metal. Like missing stalks of barley in a field.”

  “Do you mean to say that you can see inside them?”

  “Not exactly, but I can feel the flaws. Like when you rap a cracked stick against a wall and you feel it vibrate. Only I don’t need to hit the wall.”

  His father shook his head and spun the chisel about in his hand in a practiced motion as he tried to come to grips with the situation. “Well, unfortunately, I don’t believe we’ll find any answers out here. Let’s talk about this more when we get home. And we’ve got one more stop to make before that.”

  “Where are we going?”

  His father smiled. “We’re going to see about getting you into school!”

  Breeden was not expecting this response and literally stopped in his tracks.

  “School?”

  But his father had nothing more to offer than a wink and a “Come along, then!” And he grabbed his son by the shoulder and started him moving again.

  6

  Debts and Promises

  As long as it had been, and as infrequently as they went to the market, they went inside the castle’s inner bailey even less often. Breeden had been to mass at the monastery only a handful of times in his short life. And he was excited at the prospect of visiting once again. “Schooling,” on the other hand, wasn’t something he’d ever thought about before. He knew that his father had studied with the monks for a short period in his youth, but for some reason, Breeden hadn’t thought he’d be afforded the same opportunity.

  He wasn’t sure what it would mean for him, didn’t know what he didn’t know. But he was excited anyway. If nothing else, he’d be seeing a lot more of the castle.

  By virtue of the route they took, they were already well into Ridderzaal Castle’s outer bailey when they left the market. The market was to the right of the main thoroughfare leading into the inner bailey. The main approach to the castle was from the north and west—the land route from Arlon. And the road forked in front of the outer bailey into a short road down to the deepwater docks, where Long Lake formed a sheltered cove west of the River Woodfall’s mouth.

  When Breeden and his father joined up with the main road, there were few people about. Commoners were the norm: people dressed in homespun, albeit well-made and clean. And the occasional noble or wealthy merchant could be seen entering or leaving their carriages. But the nobility of Ridderzaal were small in number and quiet in their comings and goings. Breeden had heard tales of Arlon’s grandeur and the arrogance of nobles who lived in the city, but he had a hard time picturing it. His parents had taught him that all people are good at heart and that even the occasional rude customer or pompous noble might well have their own problems and he shouldn’t presume to judge them based upon one bad day.

  Today they encountered no nobles, rude or otherwise, and they proceeded south along the beautifully maintained road—one of the very few cobbled roads in the area—admiring the budding trees and beautiful homes that lined the roadway. The houses, as elsewhere in the city, were spaced close together, leaving enough room for two or three to pass abreast. More often than not, the top floors extended out over the first floors and overhung the sidewalk. As Breeden and his father approached the inner gate to the castle grounds, the crowds diminished further, and only a handful of people could be found walking about outside.

  The monastery was a massive and prominent structure, and of all the buildings within the inner bailey, it was second in size only to the keep itself. The building of the One God’s religion had a tall square tower with large round stained glass windows on each face. The windows were high enough that they could be seen above the keep’s battlements—which were themselves the height of ten men. The entire complex consisted of the cathedral itself and numerous connected outbuildings.

  At some point in the past, the builders of the castle, or perhaps an overly bold monarch, had decided that the keep’s two baileys would be more than enough defense against an attack and that the comfort of the nobility in traversing the courtyard via a covered walkway in foul weather was more important than maintaining the integrity of the castle’s defenses. The covered walkway extended from the western face of the monastery to a postern gate at the left rear corner of the castle. To the left of a large double-doored entrance on the northeastern face of the monastery was a small footpath leading to one of the outbuildings and its much smaller and humbler door. It was to this door that Breeden’s father directed their steps.

  Breeden didn’t know what to expect and glanced at his father for reassurance. But his father wore an unusual expression. He’d have called it nervousness if he’d ever seen his father wear it before. Was his father intimidated at the thought of entering the monastery? Or was it the person or people they were going to meet who caused him to be unsure of himself? In any event, Breeden became much less confident himself. His father was a rock. If his father had reason to worry, then surely he did as well.

  But his father didn’t appear to notice the concern he had caused in his focus on the task at hand. He knocked on the door firmly three times using the heavy iron ring that served as a knocker.

  The wait felt endless to Breeden, but within about a minute, he thought he detected footsteps beyond the door, and shortly thereafter it opened, revealing a middle-aged cleric in a simple robe of undyed homespun wool.

  Brother Cedric had answered the door himself. He was a sturdy man, looking to Breeden to be about his father’s age, perhaps a bit older. His hair was cut as if a bowl had been placed on his head and everything showing beneath the bowl’s rim had been removed down to the pale skin of his skull. He had black hair heavily peppered with grey and white, a prominent round nose, and simply enormous hands, which enveloped Breeden’s own when they greeted each other. He smiled warmly upon recognizing Breeden’s father.

  “Welcome, Holt Andehar! It is a pleasure to see you, and all the more so for it not being a church holy day!”

  “Good day, Brother Cedric.” He smiled as he spoke, and some of his nervous tension seemed to leave him at Cedric’s words—despite the small jab about his church attendance. “I’d like you to meet my son, Breeden.”

  “It is a pleasure, my son. Truly, it is a pleasure, and he is a blessing upon you, Holt.”

  “Thank you, brother. He is a good boy.”

  “How is Marlene?”

  “She is well, brother. She asked that I give you her best wishes.”

  “I’m certain she did. Quite certain.” His face became more serious for a moment, as if to assure Breeden and his father that his respect for the mother and wife was a given. And with the more businesslike air still in place, he continued. “So, what is it that brings you to the monastery on a day of work, and with your son in tow no less? Do you wish to submit him to me for punishment of some mortal sin?”

  Fortunately, Breeden was accustomed to sarcasm and caught the glint in Brother Cedric’s eye.

  “Close, Brother Cedric. I wish to submit him to you, but not for punishment. I would ask that you take him in and teach him as you did me.”

  Cedric responded encouragingly. “I would be honored, Holt! You came to me a bit too old to teach all I wanted to you. But your son is young enough to have a full c
ourse of subjects—not just numbers and writing, as you had!”

  Breeden’s father smiled, obviously relieved at such an immediate and heartfelt response.

  Cedric continued. “I have a few students already and recently took on two more, due to start in a few months, but I don’t see why I couldn’t take on another. Six students might make things a bit hectic at times, but I believe that any child of Holt Andehar will be far more boon than burden to my little group.”

  As his father and the cleric exchanged further pleasantries, Breeden considered the fact that Cedric had also taught his father, and it dawned on him that he’d always known this, and yet he hadn’t thought to consider Brother Cedric’s age. He must be a good deal older than he looked to have taught his father so many years ago. And yet he really did look no older than his father.

  The conversation waned a bit after the business at hand and accompanying small talk were completed, and Cedric appeared to sense an unaccustomed awkwardness in his former charge.

  “We will commence as autumn begins—the day after the equinox—and we will make allowance for any who need leave for the harvest. But you look as though poised for another question, Holt. Was there anything else?”

  Breeden’s father seemed to screw up his courage to respond. “I wish to make a donation, Brother Cedric. To what degree may I contribute to the good work of this monastery? Will ten crowns do for now?”

  Breeden perked up at mention of more money than he’d ever seen in one place at the same time. And Brother Cedric looked suddenly pained, seeing a good man struggle over a discussion involving what must be to him a considerable sum of gold. “Sir, I will gladly accept your donation, now or at any other time—especially one so generous as yours—but you are not committed or required to donate. It is the work of God to educate youth, and all who wish to be so educated may do so here in His house.”

  A strange look came over Breeden’s father, and he responded slowly, carefully. “When I was a boy, Hugh Robinet told me that a noble had taken pity on me and provided my guarantee in gold, and that this was how I was able to sit in on your lessons with the children of nobility, such as him. He held it over my head until my final days of studying with you.” It was obvious that he wished to go further, that there was underlying pain associated with the memories he now confronted. “Do you mean to tell me that this was not the case? That all these years, I have labored under the burden of my own unworthiness, believing myself indebted to a man who does not exist, and it was nothing more than the spiteful fabrication of a spoiled child?”

  Cedric’s expression became quite serious. “It would appear so. Robinet? Hmph. I always did have difficulty with that troublesome boy—now doubtless risen to a troublesome duke. This is not an excuse, believe me, but to undo the influence of parents is hard work, and from his father, he had a mean streak in him from the very first. I am sorry, Holt.”

  Breeden’s father shook his head, his shaken confidence gone and replaced with a new determination. He stepped forward and placed the heavy pouch in Cedric’s hands. “Take the coin, brother. I saved my earnings against this day so that my son would never have to suffer the humiliation I did at Robinet’s hands, and so he would be assured of—or so I hoped my meager coin would cover the cost of—schooling under your tutelage. And now I find that it was all a lie. I should have expected it, I suppose. He always was a cruel and cunning boy. But I took his words as truth because I did feel unworthy. It was too easy to do, I guess, being the only commoner among your students. And to be honest, that feeling has followed me ever since . . .”

  Cedric pondered a moment and offered, “Do not be so hard on yourself, Holt. It would seem that the lie—though cruelly intended—bore a beautiful harvest. You have done as the scrolls of the prophet Usen would have had you do, and taken a grain of sand—a painful and distracting irritant to you, as to the oyster—and made of it a pearl. You should consider that, at least to some extent, Robinet’s lie may have driven you harder to achieve success in business and emboldened you to the task of raising such an honorable and respectful boy.

  “I will not be so coy as to argue that you should be grateful to Robinet, but I hope you can come to realize now that you have proven yourself more than worthy enough to have learned beside members of nobility—a secular construction with which, I daresay to you, I wholly disagree, incidentally. You are a better man than Robinet, Holt Andehar. And your son being your son will undoubtedly become a great and worthy man himself.”

  Cedric held out the pouch solemnly, trying one more time to get Breeden’s father to reconsider. At the shake of Holt Andehar’s head, Cedric nodded and smiled, and tied the pouch to the rope belt about his waist.

  Cedric then turned to Breeden, took his hand in his own, and offered, “I ask you to remember this day, Breeden Andehar. Your determination will be tested in the months and years ahead. But you should always remember this day. Do not forget that we are all equal under God’s eyes. And we are judged not by our birth but by our words and deeds. Your father has proven himself the equal of any man today, and you should not let the Hugh Robinets of the world try to convince you otherwise.”

  7

  Questions Raised

  After dinner that night, his father excused himself and excused Breeden as well, telling his wife they were going to go for a walk. She appeared not to know the purpose for the walk and seemed curious about it but indicated her approval readily enough in the way mothers so often do: “Don’t be too late now.”

  They walked out the front door together, and his father turned right, toward the pier. It was another beautiful day turning into a beautiful, though somewhat pleasantly cooler, night, and his father commented idly, “Should have brought my pipe. Beautiful night. It’s been so hot of late I haven’t wanted to smoke.” He wasn’t as passionate about it as his giant friend Aegir, but when he had a night like tonight to enjoy his pipe, Breeden knew his father hated to miss the chance.

  The moments passed as they walked, and although Breeden assumed he knew his father’s purpose, he still felt nervous and had a hard time enjoying the night the way his father appeared to be.

  “So, can you try again to explain to me what it is you see, exactly?” His father’s question came out in a natural, almost casual tone, and Breeden checked his face to see if he was as calm as he appeared. He couldn’t really tell, but he was relieved, in any event, that the question was out. Though he wasn’t sure he could do a better job of explaining himself than he had earlier.

  He thought for a moment before responding. “I’ll try.”

  And then Breeden had a moment of insight, and thought of a way that his father of all people should be able to understand him. “It’s like the grain in a piece of wood. In fact, I think with wood it is the grain. Only instead of seeing just what you can see on the surface of a board or timber, I can see the grain all the way through the wood. And, not so much on the surface, but inside the wood, there is . . . something inside the grain, something that almost feels alive. And it’s this thing that gives the wood its strength. This thing and the grain itself, that is. Sometimes with wood I can see that there is something wrong with the grain, some kind of flaw. And the stuff that’s inside isn’t as strong at those points either. It’s like the flaw in the grain keeps the stuff inside from working right. I’m sorry, this probably doesn’t even make any sense. I’m having a hard time with this.”

  “Don’t worry. I can see you’re struggling with it. And I do think I’m coming to better understand what you see. Let’s talk about the wood some more. It sounds like you’re describing the sap running through a tree’s veins. Is that what you see?”

  “No, it’s not sap—at least I don’t think so. It’s not really liquid. And it appears to be alive. I can’t say it better. It’s as if the stuff is waiting to move, waiting to flow. It’s like water, and it’s kind of like sap, but it’s as if it’s alive and almost trapped within the wood. I’m sorry, I just can’t seem to explain it bett
er.”

  Breeden looked at his father then, their walk having taken them all the way to the base of the pier, where Breeden had seen the old man. In his father’s eyes, there was pity and curiosity and perhaps confusion. He stopped walking.

  “That’s enough for now, Breeden. If you find that the words come to you and you want to talk about it more, please let me know. But I want you to make me a promise. I want you to promise me that you will not talk with your mother about this, or anyone else for that matter. People might think you possessed of demons or worse. Talk to me. But talk with no one else. Perhaps your schooling will reveal some answers to you.”

  They both stood at the pier’s landward end and looked out over the water. Steam rose from the water as night’s cooling air rolled in, and Breeden thought about summer approaching. Then his father put his arm around Breeden’s shoulders, squeezed him, and turned him around for home.

  8

  Questions Answered

  That night, Holt Andehar had trouble falling sleep. He tossed about long after his wife had drifted off. When he could take no more, he threw back the covers and headed downstairs to his workshop. The light from the moon was enough for him to see by, but he found a tinderbox and lit a taper anyway, placing the taper in a wooden holder and releasing a heavy, pent-up sigh. He was almost furtive in his movements as he untied the burlap bag he had brought home from the market.