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

by Matthew Berg

  He reached into the bag and drew out the chisels his son had selected. They appeared well enough made, as he’d commented to his son earlier, and were in fair condition. They had the extra-wide blades he would need to work on the giant’s project and were crafted with a full tang—all from one piece of metal that ran from the tip of the blade through the entire length of the handle.

  One of them was exceptionally dull and seemed to have been subjected to very heavy use. The others had sharper edges and must have been better cared for—though even the sharpest blade would require a good turn at the stone before it would be useful for his needs. But he set down the ostensibly better blades on the workbench and put the bag down beside it.

  His sharpening stone—one of the most valuable of all of his possessions, particularly in his line of work—was a small wheel, about two handspans across, that was mounted on an axle in a metal-and-wood frame he had built himself. Attached at the axle, on the right, was a handle. And attached at the left side of the wheel was a thin metal arm that extended around to the front of the stone. Where the arm would have contacted the face of the stone, there was a small wooden clamp.

  He placed the most heavily used and battered of the tinker’s chisels in the clamp and adjusted the angle of the blade as it contacted the stone, by maneuvering the metal arm in small, precise adjustments. Placing the chisel and adjusting the clamp took him a few minutes before he was satisfied the angle was correct and the blade was held firmly against the stone. The clamp also had a small handle attached to it, which would allow him to adjust the contact point of the chisel as he worked—to ensure that the entire face of the cutting blade was uniformly ground. The handle would also permit him to push the chisel more firmly against the stone than the clamp would do on its own. He tested both of these movements until he was comfortable everything was operating smoothly.

  And then he began to turn the handle, spinning the wheel away from himself. He started slowly, and leaned forward to watch the blade’s contact with the smooth, spinning stone. Whatever he saw pleased him, and he accelerated his spinning. The steady hissing sound of the grinding metal became almost soothing after a while. He kept the wheel turning for a handful of minutes, continually raising and lowering the clamp as he did so. Then he released his grip on the handle and allowed the wheel to slow itself to a stop. He removed the chisel from the clamp and was surprised to see that the blade still needed more sharpening. He’d thought for sure he had spun the wheel more than long enough to sharpen it. The metal must be quite hard—harder than most of his own blades even. He smiled and shook his head. Breeden had been right, even about the most ill-used of the blades.

  As he placed the chisel back in the clamp and tightened it once more against the stone, he happily considered how well this chisel would work on the exceedingly dense and difficult ironwood required for Aegir’s project. And more importantly, he considered his son’s remarkable talent. He had always thought the boy was special, and despite a slight anxiety over the mystery of the whole business, he was content for now to know that his son’s abilities were real and, as far as he was concerned, proven.

  He would sleep tonight after all.

  9

  New Friends

  To Breeden, the months crept by in an unbearably slow fashion. When he wasn’t doing chores around the house, his mother was expanding on his lessons in table etiquette, on forms of address, and on manners in general. She had always been careful about instructing him to be polite but had never been one to care for the devilish details required by noble society. But Breeden had gotten the sense she didn’t want him to be an embarrassment to her in front of the nobles, and so she now worked on him whenever she had the chance.

  He spent less time on the water than he usually did, his fishing excursions with and without his father having tapered off. And despite his father having long ago taught Breeden to read, all of a sudden he wanted to cram in more lessons before the fall. As a consequence, Breeden had been reading and rereading The Prophecies—the only book his family owned. One of the few opportunities Breeden had to himself came on Saturdays or after the church services the whole family now regularly attended on Sunday mornings. But he seldom had the time or energy to wander too far during these intervals. Along with everything else, his father’s business had picked up. Besides the boat Aegir the giant had requested, his father had received an order for two launches for one of the deepwater fishing vessels anchored north of the castle, and for a small but ornate sailboat for a wealthy glass merchant.

  When four months had finally passed, the morning after the autumn equinox found Breeden walking the back roads of Woodfall toward Ridderzaal by himself. He was pretty sure this was the first time he had ever been allowed to walk the city streets alone, and he was very excited and a touch nervous, he had to admit. But the walk was mostly uneventful.

  He walked a similar route to the one he and his father had walked the day they had bought the chisels from the tinker at market and had spoken with Brother Cedric about Breeden’s schooling. But instead of walking so far west, he bypassed much of the main road leading into Ridderzaal by cutting through the wealthy Merchants’ Quarter.

  He was coming out of a side street that merged with the main road when a young girl about his age came barreling out of a home to his right. She would be pretty, he thought immediately, if she weren’t wearing such a stern and unfriendly face. And when she almost bowled him over in her haste, he became even less certain of her beauty. But she was gone in a flash and without apology, and so he dismissed her carelessness with little in the way of a second thought.

  As it was so early, the main roadway was nearly empty. Two men in the white-aproned garb of bakers set up their carts close by one another, chatting idly. A produce merchant carried a heavy crate overstacked with cabbages toward a booth already half-full with neatly arrayed fruits and vegetables. And a young man in a guard’s uniform appeared at a half run from the street opposite Breeden, headed toward the castle and trying without success to primp his rumpled uniform.

  Breeden took it all in as if he were watching one of his sunrises, capturing every detail in his mind. The sights of the city in the morning were ones he was unaccustomed to, and as he was alone, they were somewhat disconcertingly invigorating. He felt small stabs of fear when something unexpected presented itself, or whenever a voice was revealed from behind the corner of a building. He found he could literally feel the pumping of his blood through his veins for most of the trip. And when he spotted the arch to the inner bailey, and the cathedral’s tower beyond, his heart caught in his throat.

  The morning sun was rising in the east, and the first rays had reached the top of the cathedral’s tower. The sky above was indigo, fading downward in an imperceptible transition to a dark robin’s-egg blue. His pace slowed as the sun’s rays reached lower and lower, and finally hit one of the tower’s enormous stained glass windows. The entire window was suddenly aglow with a riot of colors so bright Breeden found he could neither look at the window any longer nor tear his eyes away. After a moment of staring, he realized he had stopped moving. He resumed walking with effort, lowering his eyes and shielding them with his hand to allow them to adjust back to a normal level of light.

  Unaware of exactly how much time had passed while he stared at the cathedral tower, he considered that he might be running late, and picked up his pace to a brisk walk. He was through the arch in a moment. As he approached, he could see a gaggle of children standing outside the same door to the monastery he and his father had used months before. Two boys stood to one side, talking together in low voices. One was massively tall and broad of chest. He held himself erect, and from a distance, Breeden had thought he was an adult. The other was shorter than Breeden, slighter of build, and leaning casually against a low railing at the base of the few short steps before the door. There were two other boys and a girl as well, each looking awkward and uncomfortable, and each maintaining their own space a few feet away from each oth
er.

  One of the two remaining boys had brown hair and was somewhat shorter than Breeden but was stockier and had a sour look on his face. He glanced periodically at the first two boys and seemed to renew his scowl in that way whenever it was in danger of fading away. The fourth boy was tall and somewhat narrow of shoulder, though not nearly as tall as the first boy. He had high cheekbones and blond hair cut in a rough fashion and worn just above his shoulders. His clothes were plainer than those of the others, and he appeared, if not the most nervous, certainly the most out of place. And last of all, there was a girl with long brown hair. Breeden was amused to discover that it was the same girl who had brushed by him with hardly more than an “Excuse me” earlier that morning. When he met her eyes, she made the same recognition and frowned slightly. Breeden couldn’t help himself as he approached, and observed, “Looks like you made it on time.”

  She paused for a moment as if to gauge his words and scowled when she saw the corner of his mouth twitch upward in amusement. It was at this point that Breeden realized any chance he’d had at receiving a well-intentioned apology from her was likely dwindling.

  After recognizing his failure to get off on the right foot with the girl, he moved on to the others, making eye contact with each one and saying a short “Hello” in greeting. The slight fellow was the only one who responded with more than a grunt or imperceptible mutter.

  “And hello to you as well,” he responded. “My name is Kestrel Starkad. This big oaf at my side is Laudan Marchant. The short one is Derek, but he can speak for himself. As for the other two, I believe they may be mute.”

  Breeden laughed at that and walked over to shake Kestrel’s hand. “I’m Breeden Andehar. And I’m glad to meet you. Do you know when we’re going to get started?”

  “I’m not quite sure, but I expect Cedric may be giving us time to get to know each other. He’s probably watching us from a window somewhere.” He raised his voice and projected, “ISN’T THAT RIGHT, BROTHER CEDRIC?” Then he cocked his head to one side as if awaiting a response from the absent monk.

  The big fellow at his side, Laudan, by Kestrel’s introduction, flinched slightly but somehow seemed familiar with, and prepared to be surprised by, Kestrel’s behavior. “Don’t scare them off, Kestrel. I’m sorry about him, Breeden. He’s crazy. But he’s mostly harmless. As he said, my name is Laudan. It’s good to meet you.” He extended his hand, and they shook firmly, Breeden’s strong grip not overpowered by the larger boy’s, as he’d feared.

  “I’m Oskar.”

  “I’m Janelle.”

  The tall blond boy and the girl both spoke at once, overcoming their self-imposed isolation at precisely the same time. They smiled at each other, and both laughed at their timing.

  Breeden turned from shaking Laudan’s hand and shook first the girl’s and then the lanky boy’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

  “Oh, a real pleasure all around, I’m sure. What a load of road apples.” These words were spoken by the boy Kestrel had identified as Derek. “You bloody commoners are so pitiful with your ‘airs’! Where did you come from, Oskar? Straight from the streets or via an orphanage? Perhaps you’re the get of some worm-ridden prostitute. And, Breeden, I’d guess from your calluses and the sawdust on your pants that you’re a carpenter’s son. And the pretty little girl in last Beltide’s best dress? Hmm. A spoiled merchant’s daughter, as sure as I’m the son of the Duke of Chavenay.”

  Oskar’s expression grew flat and serious, but he didn’t say anything and didn’t make a move. Breeden was torn between being surprised at how observant Derek had been to notice the sawdust—he’d been careful to clean himself, after all—and being angry at the comments he’d made about the blond boy’s background.

  But Kestrel became visibly angry. “You’re such an arrogant jerk, Derek. That’s a great way to make them feel welcome.”

  “Who says they’re welcome?”

  “Shut up, Derek!”

  “You shut up, Kestrel. Are you suddenly the defender of peasants and whores’ get?”

  Kestrel walked over to Derek and looked him levelly in the eye. With the two standing that close, Breeden thought that Derek would have the edge in a fight. He was much thicker of torso and limb.

  But Kestrel had a fire in his eyes. “So what? So what if they weren’t lucky enough to have been born a son of Duke Robinet, like you? If they had, they’d probably be just as big a jerk as you are.”

  “Robinet . . . ?” The word left Breeden’s mouth before he could catch it.

  But Derek had heard it, and he turned on Breeden. “You stay out of this, peasant. And don’t you speak my father’s name again. It’s been dirtied from you uttering it even once.”

  Breeden decided he didn’t like this boy, and he couldn’t help himself. “Your father, the duke, is the dirty one. He’s a dirty liar and a pig.”

  The girl squeaked. Even Kestrel gasped. And Derek bordered on apoplectic. “Why, you bloody uppity peasant! I’ll kill you for that!” And he rushed at Breeden, who was standing about two yards away.

  Kestrel appeared stunned by the turn of events and realized too late that he had missed his chance to grab Derek and hold him in check.

  Breeden, although perfectly average in height and build, was larger than Derek, being about the same build but a few inches taller. But Derek had gathered speed in his short run, and he struck Breeden solidly in the area between his stomach and his chest. They hit the ground hard, Derek landing on top of him. But he lost this briefly held advantage when Breeden rolled him off with a shove. And then Breeden was somehow on top of Derek, sitting astride his chest. Breeden felt his father’s humiliation at the hands of this boy’s father. And he could see that the boy was on track to do the same to him. But Breeden wasn’t about to stand by and let that happen. Before he realized what he was doing, Breeden found that his vision had narrowed and darkened, he had grabbed Derek by the hair, and he was slamming the boy’s head backward repeatedly against the cobblestones.

  Laudan, until now an innocent bystander, responded by lifting Breeden by the back of his shirt off Derek and then grabbing both of his arms to restrain him. Derek scrambled groggily to his feet and went after Breeden, swinging his fist at the immobilized Breeden’s face. All Breeden could do was turn his head sideways to avoid the brunt of the attack, but it was enough. Derek’s punch hit him on the top and side of his head instead of in the face. It still hurt, but it hurt Derek at least as much.

  Derek recoiled from the pain and immediately cradled his wrist in his off hand. Laudan released Breeden with care, making sure he wasn’t going to lunge after Derek when he did so. But the rage had left Breeden as quickly as it had come, and he simply shook his head and touched a small but rising bump on his skull. It hurt, he thought, but it wasn’t that big a deal.

  It was at that moment, of course, that the door opened and a smiling Brother Cedric appeared. “Good morning, children! Have you introduced yourselves?” His eyes narrowed as he realized that something important had happened and saw Derek favoring his wrist. He looked in the eyes of first Oskar, then Kestrel, then Breeden, and finally Laudan to try to determine who had been involved in the tussle with the duke’s son. “Is everything all right? Derek, what’s wrong with your wrist?”

  Kestrel replied before Derek or anyone else had a chance. “Oh, yes, sir. We’ve all become acquainted, sir. And I must say that it’s going to be a very interesting year!”

  But Kestrel’s sarcasm aside, Cedric received no response. And when his questions went unanswered, he grudgingly desisted and led his students into the monastery. To Breeden’s surprise, Derek hadn’t turned him in—as he had been sure would be the case. It wouldn’t occur to Breeden until much later that he shouldn’t give Derek too much credit, and that the boy likely failed to speak out of embarrassment rather than through some noble sense of honor.

  10

  First Class

  The morning of the first day of schooling with Cedric in
volved a tour of the monastery and grounds. He said that he was doing it to familiarize everyone with some important landmarks in case they became turned around in the maze of hallways, but Breeden got the sense he was proud of what he was showing them as well. As the morning progressed, the brother seemed to relax and forget the caution he had exhibited upon first greeting the children. His enthusiasm leaked out here and there when relating the history of a monk featured in a certain painting, or when showing them a library of antique books, scrolls, and scraps of parchment.

  He concluded the tour on a rooftop terrace overlooking the west grounds of the monastery, adjacent to the keep. The terrace was an immaculately maintained garden of flowering plants, evergreen bushes, and even some herbs and vegetables Breeden recognized. Its view was spectacular, enabling them to see the main roadway all the way back to the gate of the outer bailey and nearly the whole approach up to the main gate. The view was almost panoramic, and were it not for the keep itself, they would have had a sweeping view of the entire city and the countryside that fell away from the city’s walls, down to the lake and river below. The rooftop garden was the true highlight of the tour. Breeden had never seen or experienced a view like it.

  Cedric gave them all plenty of time to admire the plants and the view, and encouraged them to sit down on one of the many benches or garden seats placed throughout. “But please keep your attention on me, if you will. I’d like to begin the first lesson up here. It is such a beautiful retreat that I think it serves well the purpose of hosting my first homily.”

  He composed himself for a moment and allowed time for Laudan to join the others on one of the benches. When Laudan remained where he was and didn’t appear inclined to sit, Cedric began anyway, “Today’s homily is on the gods. The first, or ‘old,’ gods. And the true God.