The smithy stood below the road on the edge of the village of Farfalls, between a willow-banked stream and a farmer’s field. Beyond the water, autumn’s frost had gilded the poplars, and thickets of them blazed in the last of the season’s heat between stands of stately dark spruce and fir. Sulwyn limped down the gravel path from tavern, the only place in the village where a traveler could spend the night.
Weeks, he’d been gone from Silvermeadow, but the thought of Janat never ceased to make him smile. Janat, laughing too hard to run from his playful chase. Janat, singing as she scrubbed her chemises by the river. Janat, lying abed, sleepy after lovemaking.
The clang of hammer blows rang out from the smithy, and smoke rose from its chimney. One last stop, and then...he would go to Wildbrook. He prayed to Ranuat that the sisters had found their way there without incident.
Bleating sheep scattered before him as Sulwyn made his way around a post and wattle house with a thatched roof to the smithy. Below, a field of heavy oats stretched all the way to the rustling trees by the river.
He peered into the dark interior of the smithy. A fire burned fiercely, and an apprentice pumped the bellows. A rotund man Sulwyn didn’t know examined a cast iron cylinder in the sunlight at the far end, near the horse stalls. Working over a chipped slab of granite, Finn Kichman held a horseshoe with long tongs in one hand and an impressive hammer in the other.
Sulwyn smiled. The country’s upheaval hadn’t touched Finn. He was the same strapping young man he’d met in Spruce Falls almost a year ago.
Finn caught his eye, struck the horseshoe twice more, and then plunged it into a bucket of water. He dropped his tools and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Can I help you?” He slurped a dipperful of clean water.
“Finn. It’s me, Sulwyn. Cordal.”
Surprise gave way to joy on Finn’s face. “Sulwyn!” The smith tossed his dipper into a bucket and grabbed both his shoulders, pushing him out to arms’ length. “I didn’t recognize you.”
Sulwyn grinned. “This is what the better part of a year on the road can do to a man.”
“You need a barber, a tailor, and a cook. And a bath.”
“This?” Sulwyn teased. “From a man with no shirt and sweating like a pig?”
Finn guffawed and perched on the edge of a crate, pulling on a grimy shirt. “Here, sit down.” He pushed his hammer and tongs from the granite slab to make a place for Sulwyn. “You,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Donnell. Leave off those bellows.” He tossed the apprentice a chetram. “Run to the baker’s and come back with a loaf.”
The boy nodded and strode away. “And ale from the brewer’s!” Finn called in afterthought.
Sulwyn surveyed the smithy. “When Dwyn told me a man named Finn Kichman was working with us, I knew I had to come. I’d no idea you’d left Orumon.”
Finn shrugged, muscles rolling under his skin. “There’s nothing in Orumon but a chewed-up road and soldiers. Besides, I wanted to see foreign parts. When Colm left, I came with him as far as Coldridge. Then I came here, to Farfalls.”
“Colm’s a good man.”
“I’m glad you’re here.” Finn stood. “I’ve made over forty blades. Swords and dirks, mostly.” He put a hand on the ladder to the loft.
Sulwyn straightened in surprise. “Weapons?” He cast a glance at the stranger by the horse stalls.
Finn followed his gaze. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about Orville. He knows.” He climbed the ladder and, reaching into the loft, pulled out a sleek broadsword.
“We’re planning a negotiated settlement. Not war.” Sulwyn spoke in a low voice, still eyeing the stranger. Dwyn wanted to use peaceful means to regain their lost lands and freedoms.
“We pray to Ranuat weapons won’t be needed.” Finn descended with the blade. “But Artem may have some say in the matter.”
It was a complaint many—particularly the younger, or the disfavored—had made. Some of those Sulwyn approached accused Dwyn of naiveté or cowardice, or worse, complicity with Artem, even called for a different leader—usually a local petty lord. More and more asked for weapons. More and more had initiated bloodshed. And received it, in return.
“Has anyone even spoken to Artem?” Finn gave him the sword to inspect.
“We’re still trying to unite the voices of those who would oppose him.” Distractedly, Sulwyn admired the craftsmanship.
“I’ve heard the high king’s returned to the siege of Archwood, and his younger brother in Holderford has no authority to seal an agreement.” Finn took the weapon and held it up in both hands in the sunshine.
“It’s impressive, Finn. I know nothing of weapons, but you appear to know your craft.” Sulwyn had no stomach for war. “But forty blades—and no training or armor—is enough to get forty men killed.”
“This is just one smithy,” Finn responded. He nodded to the crates. “And, we’ve pilfered more.” He laid the blade carefully on the marble. “Armor will come. So will training. That’s up to Dwyn to organize.”
Sulwyn noticed with a start that the stranger was watching their conversation.
“Here.” Finn waved the other man over. “I want you to meet Orville Haye.”
Sulwyn pushed himself to his feet and the pudgy man ambled over and shook his hand. “Sieur,” Sulwyn said. Orville was a name he’d never heard before.
Sieur Haye nodded a smile. “Welcome.” His clothes were nondescript, neither rich nor ragged; his face was round and curls black. Nothing about him stood out, and yet...Sulwyn couldn’t place his accent. Neither aristocratic, nor Northern, nor Gramaryan. And Sulwyn knew most.
“Orville’s from Aadi.”
Aadi? Sulwyn stared. Was that possible?
But, yes...perhaps that was the difference. His lips were just a little wider than most men’s, his eyes a shade smaller. “How did you even get here from Aadi? The cliffs at Cataract Crag are unscalable.”
“And yet,” Finn pointed out, “Shangril trades with Aadi. Someone scaled those cliffs.”
But, this man? This...wedge of cheese?
“Sieur,” Orville said. “People journey—of—Aadi. Hard. Rare. Is done.”
By Kanden, the man could hardly speak the language.
“He came up the pulleys,” Finn grinned. “Like a side of pork.”
“They’re for cargo, not people.”
Orville spread his hands. Clearly, he was here.
“I’m sorry, Sieur,” Sulwyn insisted, “but what interest would a man from Aadi have in the affairs of Shangril?”
“Oh, he lives here now,” Finn interrupted.
Stranger and stranger.
“These pieces?” Finn indicated a series of cylinders and odd-shaped cast iron parts on a bench. “We’re creating a machine of war.”
A machine...of war? “That’s pretty vague.”
“Your country different—of—mine,” Orville Haye said. “We have—thing—you do not.”
“Be specific.”
The Aadian put his back to the crate and folded his hands across his belly. “We have—” He gestured. “Machine. Made of better—” He looked at Sulwyn and pointed to a sword.
“Steel.”
“Steel. Thank you. I give one—small one—toy—to pulley man. Paying for journey.”
“Toy?”
“Very good toy. You not have.” Orville Haye looked helplessly at him.
The man’s language made him seem simple, but Sulwyn suspected he was not. A toy that could bribe the pulley man to bring him up the unscalable cliffs made no sense, but Sulwyn didn’t press the point. “But what interest do you have in our politics?”
“Nothing.” The fat man tilted his head. “And all thing.”
Sulwyn watched him struggle for words, wondering if he was going to continue.
“I not go back to Aadi. Finn say, I am stay. I work with you—give my knowing.” He leaned over and whispered. “You is—are—good. Shangril king not good.”
Donnell rounded the corner of the smithy carrying two sloshing tankards, with a fragrant loaf under one arm.
“Ah. Food,” Orville observed. The Aadian broke the loaf in half and appropriated a tankard, leaving the rest on the granite slab beside Sulwyn. “Donnell and me. Go to creek. You—” He indicated to Sulwyn and Finn. “Talk.” He nodded reassuringly to Sulwyn and went with the apprentice down the hill.
“What are you and Orville Haye up to?” Sulwyn whispered, taking the tankard Finn offered him.
“I told you. A war machine, like they have in Aadi. It’s like a battering ram, only better. Orville made the plans and he’s showing me how to build it.”
Finn dropped a heavy purse beside Sulwyn and, tearing off a hunk of bread, sat on the crate.
Sulwyn opened the purse strings and poured coins into his palm. “Gold?” The coins were like none he had ever seen before. “This is a fortune.”
“Traders in Pagoras don’t want to see trade with Aadi hurt by the unrest caused by King Artem’s politics.” Finn washed the bread back with ale. “Shangril has things—gems, yak wool, furs—things people can’t get in the valley of Aadi because it’s too hot. And they’ll pay for them, but not if war interrupts the flow of goods. Trade is good. War is bad.”
Sulwyn held up the purse questioningly.
“They collected money to help us resolve the situation. Just be careful. Bands of ruffians on the roads will kill you just for food these days.”
Sulwyn took the remaining heel of bread. “Dwyn can use it. King Artem is taxing any petty aristocrat, any guildsman, any merchant who opposes him, just to be sure they have no funds to raise an army.”
“And is that working for him?” Finn smirked.
“The opposite. It makes them angrier.” Sulwyn washed down the last of the bread. “Though after the king of Midell was beheaded this spring, and with the uncertain outcome in Orumon, they’re nervous.” He shrugged. “Plenty of them are betting on the Delarcan army. They won’t commit.”
“There’s still plenty as would fight for us.” Finn finished the ale.
Sulwyn shook his head. “We’re better off using peaceful means.”
“One swift blow, Sulwyn. Then, peace. The kings have their countries back. The people have their Gods. The merchants have their trade.”
“And Artem?”
“King of Arcan, like he was before. Or, better, lop off his head and let the Gods choose a successor.”
“Lop off his head? How? He’s crushed the prayer stones and killed the magiels of all the Great Houses. No one’s strong enough to oppose him. The Ruby would defeat us at every turn.”
“Artem won’t take the Ruby or his magiel from the siege at Archwood. He needs them there or Talanda Falkyn will use the Amber to break the siege. His hands are tied. If we take Holderford—or any city—while Artem’s busy, we’d be fighting a battle with no prayer stone on either side,” Finn reasoned. “Sulwyn, you have to convince those men, the ones who are holding back. Talk and diplomacy are getting us nowhere. We have weapons. We need to fight.”
Sulwyn shook his head. “Dwyn’s our king.”
“Then tell him. And tell him we need a magiel. Magic on our side will be indispensable.”
“Indispensible? Magiels don’t have that kind of power.”
“Talanda Falkyn’s daughters would.” Finn rolled his eyes at his surprise. “Come on, Sulwyn. You know we met them in Spruce Falls. Colm wanted to keep them, but you spirited them away in your cart after that fuss with the guard who lost his tongue.”
Sulwyn’s pulse sped. “What makes you think they were Talanda’s daughters?”
“Colm figured it out. They are, aren’t they?”
Sulwyn brought his breath under control, but he spoke in a tight voice. “Who else knows?”
“No one. Colm only suspected, and I didn’t know for sure.”
“They’re marked, Finn. Artem would have them hunted down. Don’t you dare breathe this to a soul.”
“Sure.” He shrugged. But he returned Sulwyn’s stare with one of his own. “You still know where they are, though,” he alleged. “They’re too valuable to us—and to Artem—for you to have just lost track of them.”
“No.”
“Sulwyn?”
“I said, no. We’re not putting them on the front lines of any battle.”
Finn whistled. “That’s pretty strong. Are there personal feelings—”
“No!” Sulwyn shot him a look.
Finn angered. “Are you having a love affair?”
Sulwyn clapped the tankard on the crate and rose to his feet.
“I’ve guessed it, haven’t I? Two for two.” He placed his foot on the crate Sulwyn had vacated, cutting off his exit. “Listen, Sulwyn, this war is bigger than your—”
“They are too young.”
“But not too young for you to bed? Which one, Sulwyn?”
Anger surged up his neck, and it was all Sulwyn could do to breathe. Hold himself rigid.
Finn stood as well. “I like you. I do. But the needs of the people of this country are more important than the lives of three girls.”
Sulwyn chewed on nothing, inarticulate.
“Magiels of the House of the Amber,” he went on. “Now that Kraae is dead, the most powerful magiels in Shangril. Even with no prayer stone, think of what those three can do.”
“Untrained. Untested. Artem will eat them for breakfast.”
“Sulwyn.” Finn lowered his voice. “It’s not up to you. To say yes, or no. It’s up to Dwyn.”
Sulwyn caught his eye. “No, Finn.” His head shook slowly from side to side. “It’s up to them.”