A short set of stairs led up into the slightly elevated back part of the shop. Here hung bright steel, the brightest in all the Grand Basin. Not even the forgings from Hadran Head—imported from Hrunard itself—could compare to its purity and strength. This normally ample and assorted display, however, was sorely depleted. The Festival gift purchases had taken their toll on Galen’s stock, even as they had enriched the fat ledger book locked in the strongbox at the far corner of the room.
Beyond all this, however, the back of the shop was cut off from the world by an iron, windowless wall. Many a child had pondered what lay beyond that wall, telling stories in the night to one another of hideous beasts and monsters chained in the service of the deceptively pleasant Galen. The adults enjoyed the lark of such tales and knew better. It was only the dark, hot heart of the shop: Cephas’s forge.
Being a forge, the shop had some peculiar requirements, and none more peculiar than this particular forge. Fire was the greatest friend and fear in Benyn: a force to be respected and held carefully in check. Its blazing furnace heat could meld the carbon and iron of the Shunard Mounds into not just any steel, but the special steel for which this forge was renowned. That same heat could, if it were let slip from its bounds, ravage the town and put an end to its long and quiet history. So the forge, bellows, and furnaces were located here, in the back, its once-open arches now sealed off in iron from the adjoining alley to the south as well as the old storage yard to the west.
In this cavernous darkness, the forge in the corner glowed a deep red. The embers from the previous day’s work had calmed overnight into an inviting warmth.
There, next to the forge, sat the old dwarf Cephas, his eyes bound tightly shut with cloth.
Cephas slept on the ground between the furnace and the bellows each night, despite Galen’s repeated offers of the bed and rooms above the shop. He needed to feel the warmth of the forge, he politely explained each time, and to know that the stone was waiting for him each morning. With the coming of each dawn, the old dwarf would pick himself up from the ground and methodically change out the multiple layers of cloth over his eyes. Only then would he venture from the safety of his iron, pitch-black forge into the front of the shop, unlocking the shuttered doors and opening them onto the Processional before retreating again to the forge.
Cephas laid his hand against the forge and furnace for several minutes, pondering its temperature and the work to be done that day. Once satisfied with his plan, he turned and slowly started the process of bringing the forge to life. He moved about the forge room with confident steps and assurance. Though he was blind, he knew this room as only a dwarven smith could. He gathered up the charcoal from the bin, measured it in exact amounts, and then returned to the furnace.
All the while, in the darkness, he spoke to himself. It was a habit of which he was completely unaware and even denied when Galen chided him about it from time to time. Still, he reasoned to himself, when one is alone, one cannot be choosy about with whom one has a conversation.
“Temperature good er is,” he said to the darkness. “The steel er good be today. Hallo, my dark fire, eh!”
He reached out, patting the furnace with a precise touch.
“Be a fury a’day, good friend. Er is want for the craft in the broad world.”
He worked the bellows, carefully laying new charcoal atop the old coals, breathing blazing life back into the furnace. The heat rose quickly in the close room, but Cephas reveled in it.
“Er is some breaking-fast for you, pretty!” Cephas chuckled to himself, adding iron to the coals as he worked the bellows. “Into the furnace, er is! Out again pure and holy! Worthy of my, er is! Worthy of my clan! Worthy of my name, er is!”
His clan.
He grew silent at the thought as he always did, though he never missed a beat of his work on the bellows nor let his mind stray too far from the forging of the steel. He wondered where his clan was now. What would they think of mad old Cephas, wandering blind in the light? Would they understand his flight? Would they accept what he had done?
The thoughts always wove in and through themselves to the same conclusion: he would never know. He could never go back among them to find out. Cephas was dead to them—or at least he hoped so.
“No, sire.” Cephas chuckled to himself. “Blind dwarf walks the world. Maybe visit the Shunard Mounds. Maybe cross the Dragonback. Maybe see Palathina waters at night if the clouds hide the stars and moons. Maybe cross the waters there, too.”
The steel pooling in the bottom of the furnace was nearly ready to be pulled.
Cephas smiled. “Yes, much of the world yet for a blind dwarf to see.”
It was a litany he often spoke to himself, but in his heart he knew that he would never leave Galen. This strange human was more than a friend to him. Galen was a fair craftsman at the forge and a fine smith by human standards—such as they were. Yet there was something helpless about Galen that needed Cephas. The boy seemed to know a lot more about smithing than about life. Cephas had come to Galen’s forge by accident, wandering from a ship docked at Hadran Head on the road toward Shunard. He had found Galen working his own forge, but while the boy had talent, he was obviously trying to do more than he actually knew how to do. Cephas had helped him forge his steel that day—and forged a friendship stronger than his own steel in the process.
They had been together four years. Several times a year since, Galen had offered—later demanded—that Cephas be his partner in the shop. Each time, again and quietly, Cephas had turned him down. Being a partner meant that the shop would own part of him, the blind dwarf replied. All he wanted was to make his wages, practice his craft, and enjoy the company of his odd human friend.
Cephas stoked the forge, felt its heat on his face, and then turned to the unshaped lumps of steel that were cooling on a large stone slab to the side. He felt the radiance of the heat and spat on each of the raw steel lumps, smelling the sizzle of his own spittle.
“Good steel er is!” He smiled under his wrapped, blind eyes. He pulled one of the lumps with tongs and moved quickly over to the forge.
“Good omen, this steel,” he muttered. “Wonder what else this day forging er is?”
4
Whispers and Ghosts
Galen strode down Windward Road soaking in the daylight. The day was turning out to be uncommonly warm for early Leavenmonth. Although the leaves far to the west of the Margoth Wood had already turned to vibrant color, the grasses of the Grand Basin were still supple and green. The wind blowing off Mirren Bay had a chill to it as he walked, but the sunlight warmed his face whenever he stopped—which was often.
“Hail, Galen! Catching the sun, are you?”
Galen did his best to stifle a laugh. “Hail, Pontis! On a day like this, who shouldn’t stop and smile at the sky?”
Pontis gazed back at Galen with kind eyes shining through the wrinkles of a dour face. Pontis had been fishing the waters of Mirren Bay for as long as Galen could remember. Early every morning Galen watched the old fisherman make his way down to the wharf. Pontis’s craggy face had been carved by salt water, sun, and wind into leathery folds that were mistaken for scowls by those who did not know him. He was a weathered old salt of the Chebon Sea . . .
Who now was wearing the most outrageous costume Galen had ever seen. Brilliant bands of yellow and purple alternated around the old man’s body. A huge hat flopped over to one side, its crown ending in a silver bell. All of Vasska’s domain—from Hrunard to the northern tip of the Dragonback—would be dressed in bright costumes today. For many, it was an opportunity to look striking and beautiful. For others, however, the effect was unintentionally the opposite. The sight of the wizened old seaman clad in this bizarre ensemble was the most incongruous and ridiculous thing Galen had ever seen.
“I see you’re headed for the Festival.” Galen spoke carefully, his eyes bright with the laughter he held tightly in check. He would not have offended his old friend and neighbor for all the lands o
f the Dragonback. He had built his home on the north side of town just because he knew the people like Pontis living next door were as good as they came within three days’ walk—and three days’ walk was as far as Galen ever wanted to go. Still, he was not sure how he would get through this conversation without laughing offensively at the ridiculous outfit. “Nice . . . weather for it.”
“True as ever told,” Pontis responded, his face relaxing into its more accustomed dog-faced frown. “Still, with a red morning sky, there will be a storm soon enough, mark my words, boy!”
Galen shook his head, his own enthusiasm undiminished. “Not clouds today, Pontis—it’s Festival and I don’t think the Dragon Priests will allow it.”
“Vasska forbid,” Pontis intoned grimly from under his yellow floppy hat.
“Vasska forbid,” Galen responded in kind, then continued lightly down the slope toward the town.
Windward Road was quickly getting crowded. Farmers and fishermen alike had left their homes to join the excited and growing crowd toward the center of town. From the west, people were coming down the road all the way from Leeside to celebrate in Benyn. Galen did not doubt that before the day was closed, there would be many folk from Connis, Sharton, and maybe from as far as Delf just to join in the revelries.
It certainly seemed as though the entire Dragonback had decided to attend the Festival in Benyn. Galen was already having trouble making his way down the road through the pushing, excited crowds. The buildings lining Windward Road grew more elaborate as he neared the central square of the town. The intricate carvings of Vasska that ornamented the buildings were festooned with streamers of multicolored cloth. Several of the more exuberant children were tossing dried flower petals from the upper windows of a few of the shops despite the halfhearted protests of their parents. The flower petals, saved since spring, were meant for the Reveler’s Trump later in the day, but a few handfuls were already drifting down on the street from overexcited, anxious little hands.
Galen suddenly chilled as he stepped into the shadow of the Kath-Drakonis, the towering mass that stood to his left, blocking out the sun with its tremendous size. The great dome flashed with refracted light, casting small rainbows among the people in the shadowed street.
“Hail Galen!” called a voice from the crowd.
Galen glanced about for its source. “Hail!” he called out.
“Have you ever seen the like of it?” Galen could see her now. It was Chendril, the woman who owned the basket shop across and a few doors up from his own. Several of her baskets hung from a tall, carved staff she held as she made her way about the crowd. “It will be a grand day for the Pir, eh?”
“It won’t do your purse any harm either!” Galen returned.
“How else will these good people get all their goods home?” Chendril laughed. Then she again began calling out, “Baskets! Strong baskets!”
The head of Chendril’s staff turned and winked at him.
Galen turned his face, his broad smile dimming. Don’t look, he thought. Don’t look and it will go away.
He moved deftly around the perimeter of the crowded square. The young students of the Kath were performing the Supplicant Dance around the large fountain in the center of the square. Their parents watched in rapt delight, but most of the crowd took only a cursory interest in the traditional, occasionally awkward steps to the iron tempo of the drum. They spoke and laughed with one another in the press of the throng. At first Galen was able to make his way quickly around the periphery of the square by dodging through the numerous open storefronts, but one glance down Court Street—the road forming the south side of the square—and he knew that there would be no quick or simple way to get through to the Processional.
That left him with Barb’s Lane.
Taking a deep breath, he turned right, put his head down, and walked purposefully along the stone-paved passage between the buildings. The going was much easier past all the weaver shops despite the narrowness of the street. The winding street tumbled down the slope of the town from the center of Court Street south until it ran into Cagger’s Row. Barb’s Lane was far too shabby for the name of “lane”—it was really more of an alley carved awkwardly between buildings competing for space. Still, it was a haven for the more creative and artistic pursuits of Benyn’s business.
It was a place Galen studiously avoided, especially around Festival time.
“Galen’s come to us!” hissed the carved poles supporting the awning to his left.
“Galen’s day! Galen’s day!” laughed a tapestry displayed on the other side of the road.
Galen kept his eyes forward and his gait steady.
“Hear us! Love us! Serve us, Galen!” the iron dragon fixtures attached to the gables murmured to him in a dark chorus. “You called us into being—we own you!”
Galen swallowed. Ignore them, he thought. Just ignore them and they will go away.
“They’ve come for you, Galen,” a flute sang to him from a peddler’s cart, the peddler taking no notice. “You must flee . . . you must fly . . . you must tell your past good-bye . . .”
The lane ended. A left down Cagger’s Row and he was finally on Vasska’s Processional, glad suddenly for the noise of the crowd drowning out the whispered voices that spoke with hushed urgency into his ears alone. He was only a few steps from his own shop entrance—glad to lose himself in its familiarity.
The twin dragon heads mounted on the corner of his shop turned and watched him as he entered.
“Ah, Galen,” came the familiar rumble from the back of the shop. “You smell as strong er is!”
“You smell strong, too, Cephas,” Galen said, returning the old dwarven greeting. He glanced about at the barren shelves. “It looks as though we’ve had a good morning already.”
Cephas stomped out of the forge room and into the front of the shop. His leather apron was draped over his squat, powerful body. The dwarf’s chest, shoulders, back, and arms were all so hairy that Galen had trouble knowing where his friend’s hair and beard ended and his body began. He wore soiled cloth breeches—a concession to the modesty of human women, he said—and thick boots. “Aye. Steel’s been flowing out er door. Gold been flowin’ in. S’posing that what yer wanting er, eh?”
“I do, indeed.” Galen smiled. Cephas was still rather fuzzy on the concept of trading one metal for another—especially such a useful metal as steel for such nonsense as a soft and useless metal like gold.
“Well, bags of it now er the strongbox,” Cephas said, pointing with a huge, callused hand toward the forge. “Iron we got some. Steel mostly gone. Forging some now er out we.”
“Thanks, Cephas.” Galen glanced about the shop, then stepped past the blind dwarf and climbed up the short staircase at the back. “I . . . I think I’ll take a few more turns at that inlay casting for the Kath.”
Cephas reached up, gripping Galen’s arm with terrible strength. The old dwarf never turned his head nor even seemed to look at the young smithy from behind his cloth-mask.
“Near time er Election,” the dwarf rattled under his breath for Galen’s ears alone. “The human priests look er you, friend.”
Galen spoke quietly back. “They’ve never looked there yet—and the Pir monks never change. Every year they follow the same old search—and every year they miss me.”
“Maybe this year change, er is?”
“No, the Pir are as predictable as the sunrise, Cephas. All I need to do is wait until the Pir monks and local Guardians finish their sweep and I’m safe.”
“Maybe they catch you joining the crowd, eh? Maybe they catch you going in?”
“Relax.” Galen smacked his hand hard against the old dwarf’s back. He had long ago learned that Cephas only took it as a show of affection if he hit him really hard. “I’ve done this for years. Besides, they’re looking to keep people from leaving the square—not from going in!”
Galen stepped past the dwarf and sat down at his workbench. The casting mold for the relief sa
t where he had left it yesterday. The tools remained next to the long stone mold where he had carefully arranged them the night before. Here is where his craft shown. His molds were intricate and beautiful, showing a delicate and artistic hand in a medium that was often more brutish.
“Short too is nose my!” squawked the third figure from the center of the mold.
“Sorry,” Galen whispered. He picked up a burnishing tool and began shaving out the hollow for the nose, making it slightly longer. He never could understand why the reverse casting molds always spoke to him backwards. He was soon so lost in his work that he did not even see her approaching.
“Hey, craftsman—up here!” someone said.
“What?” Galen looked up somewhat confused. Who was speaking to him forward?
Berkita was laughing at him. She was already in her Festival dress, a beautiful pattern of rust colors that reminded him of the leaves turning. Matching ribbons streamed down her back from her hair.
“You cannot force the mold, you know.” Berkita spoke mockingly as she repeated the words he had said far too often to her. “You have to let the stone take you to places that are—”
“Yes, that are bigger than yourself.” Galen laughed, setting down the burnishing tool. “I thought I told you I’d meet you in the square?”
“So you did.” She smiled crookedly back at him. “Still, I thought I’d come and collect you. The Election is about to start, and the blessing is right after.”
“I’ve had my blessing for the day, thank you.” He chuckled, grabbing her and wrapping his arms suddenly around her waist.
She pushed him away halfheartedly. “Perhaps so—but you promised me, nevertheless— Hey, careful where you put that ‘delicate hand’ you’re always bragging about!”
He released her with no small reluctance. “That’s a delicate hand and an eye willing to see what is possible rather than what is.”
Mystic Warrior Page 3
